Come What May
by PheonRen
Summary: Mira the mage meets drunken, wandering Alistair. She could be just what he needs, if he can get out of his own way and allow himself to love her. Complex and dark, but with some fluffy romance. Some violence and gore as well as sexual content.  m/f
1. Dedication

Dedication

Over the course of writing any story, one of the greatest sources of encouragement and determination is the people around you.

Every one of you that commented has helped me to stay the course. This story is for you, and for the characters, who are as real inside the corners of my mind as anyone could possibly be.

One particular poster on the network has been of huge encouragement and help for me… that would be allysacousland. To her, I want to give an extra thank you. She helped me find some great addons and actually apply them to the game, and she gave me encouragement and understanding sympathy when I felt overwhelmed.

Additionally, as I've noted throughout the story, I look every day for reviews and comments. I know it's socially inappropriate to admit it, arrogance or pride or somesuch nonsense…

But I don't really care. I love it. I enjoy it. I am encouraged and supported by every comment, even if it's not a happy, happy, joy, joy comment. It makes my day to know that someone enjoyed it, or even read it. That someone actually took a couple minutes of their time to say, "Yo, you ain't half bad at this!" **chuckle**

Anyway, thank you all, so much. Although I may at some point revise or revamp, it's great to know that even in its rawest, first draft form, there are people who were able to enjoy it and who love the characters as much as I do.

When they live in my mind alone, they have a place. When you let them live in your mind, dear reader, then they take on a life.

Thank you for loving my friends, the characters, as much as I do. Thank you for being the momentum that completes their story.

Now, I shall take a writing break and do some reading and playing!

~ PheonRen


	2. Prologue

**Our story so far:** On his way to Denerim, Riordan had found a young mage, Mira, who had escaped the Circle tower before the Templars had closed it off. She was fleeing from the Templars and the Circle, desperate for nothing more or less than freedom.

Taken by her determination—as she had run without even food, and by her pride, as well as her intelligence in avoiding the powerful Templars despite everything, he put her through the Joining. He then sent her back towards Orlais with the young Warden who had been intended to travel to Denerim with him.

Though they began to travel back towards Orlais, the young warden became disoriented. The pair wandered for weeks until finally, they were overtaken by Darkspawn. Mira escaped with her life only thanks to the heroic efforts of the young Darienne. They had formed a strong friendship, though not of a romantic nature, and she was in deep mourning to have lost the first real friendship of her life.

She had lost her family in order to be taken to the Circle to begin with, and the loss of her budding friendship had been hard to take.

Then, she had been lost and alone, wandering with nothing more than her clothes and the meager supplies she had taken, sobbing, from Darienne's corpse and the Darkspawn that attacked them.

It was thus that Alistair and Wynne found her on their way to Orzammar. Wynne, who was herself old and who saw in Alistair the true King still, had accompanied him in his flight from Denerim when the Warden had set himself up as King and taken Anora to wife.

They had only barely escaped with their lives, and despite all she asked of him, he refused to put forth any effort towards anything but finding Darkspawn to kill. It was his intent to die in the depths of the Deep Roads, fighting Darkspawn to his last breath.

She had begun to give up hope of changing his path, when they'd stumbled across poor Mira, who despite all the odds against her had been fighting Darkspawn on the road. They'd joined the fray and saved her. For lack of anything better to do, they'd turned to take her to Orlais, to deliver her to the Wardens there.

Along the way, Wynne had watched the growing romance between the pair with great interest, until Alistair, in his drive to be a hero—or perhaps to kill himself—had fallen in a fight against rogue golems at some ruins.


	3. Part 1

**Part 1:**

Wynne slowly stood up, stretching and obviously seeking to ease the pain in her knees. Mira's eyes followed her movement, waiting for the prognosis.

"I think he'll make it. If he wakes up within the next few hours, he'll pull through." She met Mira's eyes. "He's strong, and I've done all I can for him for now. The bones are knit, now we must wait to see how his brain handles the trauma."

Mira nodded.

"Morrigan's leftover potions helped a great deal, as well. It's fortunate we managed to get a poultice set right away." She stretched, easing her aching back. "I'm going to go rest now."

"I'll stay here with him," Mira responded, looking back down at the sleeping form beside her.

"I thought you might," Wynne said cryptically as she left the tent.

Mira sat beside Alistair and held his hand. Somehow, it felt like the right thing to do. Her mother had held her own hand many times before the Circle took her, but she doubted that Alistair had ever had this simple kindness extended to him.

So she sat for a time, watching the light of the lamp's flames dance on the tent walls. At last, as the night drew in deeper around her, she settled against the cot Alistair was lying on. The hours passed, and her mind churned.

She thought of what she'd lost, and she looked over at Alistair's face, thinking as well of what she'd gained. What she might now lose.

The lamp still burned, casting flickering, dancing light across his face. She felt tightness curl through her stomach, and tears burned against the back of her eyes.

But finally, the siren's call of thought could no longer hold her, and she laid her head against the cot for a moment. Her eyes sank closed as she leaned awkwardly on it, her head against his arm and his hand held firmly in hers.

Just before sleep claimed her, she whispered softly, "Please don't leave me alone, Alistair."

She had no idea how much time had passed when she felt his hand leave hers. Then it landed on her head, warm and heavy.

"Mira?" Alistair felt the soft hair beneath his hand, and tried to ignore the thrill of joy that rushed through him upon finding her holding his hand.

"Alistair?" she said sleepily. Then, "You're alive!"

She sat up abruptly, his hand sliding away from her head. "Let me look at that wound, and see how it's knit," she told him, her voice allowing no room for argument.

"You're so bossy," he said with a grin.

She looked at him without humor, "Just let me look."

She leaned over him then, turning his head slightly, her hands running through his hair in search of the wound that had laid him flat on the field of battle. For a few seconds, he was distracted by that sweet touch…

Then he realized that she'd turned him face to face with her bosom. Soft, pale breasts peeked out the top of a properly modest robe, enticing him with thoughts of what must lie below that very alluring neckline.

He then recognized that he was leering, and how inappropriate his train of thought was. Immediately, he began to sit up so that she could inspect him from a less… interesting… position.

A truly terrible idea, if ever he'd had one. His face met hers with a loud 'crack!' and he was almost bounced back down onto the cot, an involuntary "ow!" yelping from his lips as he grasped at his aching head.

"Alistair!" Mira admonished as she held her nose—now gushing with blood. "What were you thinking?"

"I can't tell you," he said, feeling suddenly very meek and quite humiliated.

Obviously a bit cross, she said through the blood, "I wasn't really asking, you know."

She rummaged in a pack on the floor next to him until she found a minor poultice. Holding it to her nose like the Templars used to do with steaks—claiming they had healing power even greater than the herbal poultices—she glared at him.

Then as the healing magic in the poultice went to work, she sat down next to him and sighed.

"I'm glad you're awake. Wynne said that if you woke up in the next few hours, that you'd probably be okay."

Alistair groaned, "I wish I was still asleep, my head is probably going to kill me anyway."

"I'll go see if Wynne's got anything that will help," Mira told him, leaving the tent.

He groaned again, telling the empty air, "If you must. But she'll probably make me wish I was dead with her concoctions." He sighed and waited.

Soon, Wynne ducked into the tent, followed by Mira. "Drink this," she told him.

He did, gagging and choking on the taste. "You make these things taste like that on purpose, don't you?" he accused her when he'd recovered.

She took the flask back and started out the door, stopping only to say, "I don't. But if it will make you duck next time a golem rock comes flying at you, I'll thank the Maker for doing it."

"You're a bad person, Wynne!" Alistair called after her. "A very, very bad person!"

Then as his own voice made his head pound again, he grabbed at it once more. "Ugh, I wish it worked faster."

"Perhaps if you'd be still, it wouldn't be so uncomfortable," Mira scolded him, her voice tart.

"Why're you picking on me?" he asked, now feeling slightly petulant.

She sighed and sank down next to him. She looked away when she spoke, her voice suspiciously thick. "I thought you were going to leave me alone there for a while."

His chest tightened. Would she miss him—Alistair—or would she miss her fellow Warden?

"You're the one that reminded me that the Wardens can be remade," he told her, fighting the fog that was overtaking his mind from Wynne's potion.

But it was too late. He slid into darkness, unsure if it was real or a dream when he felt her hand on his bare chest and heard her say, "Yes, but you can't." He suddenly wanted to stay in this dream forever.


	4. Part 2

**Part 2:**

Mira woke several hours later to find that once more Alistair's hand lay heavy and warm on her head. She lay still for some time, enjoying his touch, though he had probably done it automatically in his sleep.

Shifting, she found herself incredibly sore, having slept the whole night leaning across Alistair's cot. She stretched and snuck a look at him again from under her eyelashes. He was Templar, and thus she should be nowhere near him. She knew, though they'd never discussed it.

She hadn't told him that she'd run from the Circle, nor had she told Wynne. Though, she was sure that Wynne sensed something familiar about her. They'd never had chance to interact, and Mira had kept entirely to herself when she wasn't at lessons.

That didn't mean that Wynne had never noticed her, and since joining the pair, Mira had often noticed the older woman looking at her with a distant look on her face. She shivered, thinking what this man might think of her if he knew she had run from the Circle. If Wynne knew, would she tell?

Would Alistair hate her? Would he drag her back?

And what chance did they have together, with this terrible secret standing between them? She couldn't tell him, and she couldn't tell Wynne. She'd simply told them the incident with Riordan in the shortest possible way, not explaining more.

To her relief, they hadn't asked. But someday, she felt sure it would come up. And then it would ruin everything.

Reaching out, feeling tentative and unsure, she picked up his hand and slowly ran her thumb across the soft skin of his wrist. Then, with a last look at his sleeping face, she stepped out of the tent.

The air was cold, her breath steaming out into the morning like a cloud of magic. They were in the mountains, and had crossed into Orlais two days ago. She tried not to think of being taken to the Gray Wardens here and left.

Alone again. No more free than she had ever been. Frustration, resignation, and sorrow warred in her. She had fled to freedom, only to find that she couldn't keep it.

Shivering now, she left her thoughts behind to set a fire in the central pit of their camp. Soon it was roaring cheerfully, and she set about preparing for the day. It wasn't long before some cakes were cooking in the skillet, and the scent of bacon filled the air.

"That smells delicious," Wynne said as she came out of her tent.

"You look tired," Mira told her. "I'm happy to keep an eye on things after you eat, if you like. A little more rest will do you good, if we're to travel again as soon as Alistair is ready."

"He will be ready today. My magic is restored, and I should be able to finish knitting anything that's still damaged. But I will rest, it's a good idea." And so saying, Wynne began to eat.

Mira left her there, taking food in to Alistair. As she came in, he woke and looked up at her, welcome in his warm tawny eyes. "Is that for me?"

She nodded, fighting her feelings and her fears.

"Really? It smells great! I didn't know you could cook." He sat up slowly, careful to keep the blanket from falling away from his waist.

"I think it makes Wynne feel good to cook for us. It's her way of showing us that she cares."

"You could be right," Alistair said. He waved the fork in the air, "But this is good, really good!"

"Thank you," she told him, then went back out to the fire to get her own food.

When she went back in a half hour or so later, he was sleeping again, and she grinned as she heard a light snore. She'd have to tease him about that later, as she was often regaled by stories of his dwarf companion, Oghren, and his snoring.

She walked back out and found Wynne bustling about the campsite. "Go rest," the older mage told her, shooing her actively towards her tent.

Too tired to argue, Mira obediently went into her tent and fell asleep nearly faster than she could lay down.

When she woke, she heard voices at the fire. She thought Alistair must be up, so she slipped out of the tent, a smile on her face. To her surprise, neither of the two men sitting at the fire across from Wynne were Alistair.

She noticed immediately that Wynne looked tense and unhappy, but she had no idea why that might be. Feeling defensive of this woman who in only a short time had become almost like family to her, she stepped closer to try to catch what they were saying.

One of the men saw her, and turned to look at her. He was dressed in full plate, though his helm sat on the ground beside him. "Well, what have we here?" he said upon seeing her. He shot a look at Wynne, who looked even more displeased.

"A Gray Warden," Wynne said, her voice sharper than the cold air around them.

"Is it true that Gray Wardens are above the law in Ferelden?" the man asked, his voice mocking and cold.

Wynne didn't answer, her lips pursed sharply. She looked at Mira as if trying to send some warning that Mira couldn't fathom.

The man stood up and bowed to Mira as she stepped towards the fire, feeling much less confident now. "Chevalier Montreux at your service, My Lady," he told her. Then he walked around the fire, coming near her.

He reached up to run one cold metal gauntlet down her cheek. "What is such a stunning creature doing out here in the mountains with only an old lady for an escort?" Something in his voice made a shiver run down her spine.

Yet she was confused. She had never been called beautiful in her life. This man seemed somehow suave and urbane, and she felt flattered to be spoken to in such a way. Yet his voice and his manner were unfamiliar, she having been cloistered in the Circle for her whole life.

And Wynne was looking at her with a mixture of fear and warning that made her blood run cold. She wanted to cover herself in magic, the most familiar form of protection she knew.

But she did nothing.

"I am going to the Gray Warden headquarters, Ser," she told him politely. She was of noble blood, but she was a mage. She'd never been called "My Lady" before, and for some reason, she decided not to correct him.

Perhaps it was perversity, but the idea of being called such a title made her feel a little less like nobody.

"Well," he told her, looking at her with obvious appreciation, "We mustn't let you travel alone. As a Chevalier, it's my duty to save maidens and slay darkspawn. The pleasure of the first makes the work of the second so much more bearable."

The other man laughed, and Wynne positively vibrated with suppressed outrage.

Somehow, despite the seeming courtesy of Montreux's words, Mira was anything but comforted by this. She opened her mouth to protest when she caught Wynne's sharp shake of the head, covered quickly with a cough.

She realized that, at least for the moment, she would have to comply. But she didn't mention Alistair, and the men didn't ask why there were three tents. She couldn't help but wonder and fear what would happen when he emerged.

Until then, though, she cooked a lunch while Wynne engaged the men in surface conversations about fashions and politics.


	5. Part 3

**Part 3:**

Alistair awoke to the sound of strange voices and the smell of food. He was at first disappointed that Mira wasn't there, but pushed the feeling aside. It was foolish to expect her to be there at his side every waking moment.

He felt rather dizzy and sore, but regardless, went through the motions of putting on his armor. Caillan's armor was all he had left of his hopes for Ferelden. It was what reminded him of Duncan and those many Gray Wardens whom he'd come to know and then lost.

It was his sanctuary now, of sorts. A sanctuary he could carry with him wherever he went—a bastion against the storms of life.

He lifted his head and smiled as Mira's voice carried to him from the fire. Perhaps there was another bastion in his life. Only time would tell, but already he felt a growing sense of connection with this new Gray Warden.

Stepping out of the tent, he felt something dark and dangerous pass over his heart. Mira sat at the fire, but not alone. Not even alone with Wynne.

Beside her sat a man who looked like something out of legend or myths. He was large, wearing shining silver armor that glittered brighter than the snow around it. His hair was sleek and black, his eyes deep and warm in a rugged face.

He was the epitome of what Alistair had heard many maidens giggled over and wanted and all dreamed of capturing… "Tall, dark, and handsome."

And he was openly flirting with Mira, who was smiling at him with a mixture of interest and fascinated fear. Somehow, Alistair didn't think it would be too difficult for the stranger to wear away that bit of fear.

A knife twisted in his gut, the fresh memory of a man whom he'd come to count as friend, gifting Loghain, the greatest traitor Alistair could imagine, the right and the privilege of the Joining.

Now Mira sat at the fire, flirting and laughing with a strange man. And just last night he'd begun to hope… but no.

For after all, who was he? He was a bastard nobody. He'd always known it, and he should have never forgotten it. He suddenly felt dirty wearing Caillan's armor.

But it was too late now. He walked bravely towards the fire, greeting Wynne warmly. She was ever with him, since he'd helped restore the Circle. He felt certain that he could trust her, and his heart warmed a bit to realize that at least there were some people—so very few—that could be trusted in the world.

"And who is this?" said the jovial man at Mira's side. "Is this your husband, then?" he asked, leaning towards Mira, clearly uncaring as to the response.

"No," Alistair said.

"Yes," Wynne said at the same instant.

Alistair looked at Wynne and blinked. What in the Darkspawn horde had come over her?

"He's her fiancé," Wynne told the stranger. "Alistair, this is Chevalier Montreux, and that is Chevalier Ambrose. Sers Montreux and Ambrose, may I present Ser Alistair Theirin."

Alistair was set aback by Wynne's introduction. He had never claimed his father's name, and didn't plan to start now.

"Ah, a Noble, is it?" Chevalier Montreux asked.

Hearing the disappointment in the Chevalier's voice, Alistair was reminded of what Leliana had once told him; that the Chevaliers in Orlais were above the law. They took what they wanted, when they wanted it, and any who stood in the way were killed.

Suddenly, the scene took on a far more ominous, even frightening atmosphere. For Wynne to behave as she was, using his father's name to establish him as a Noble; meant that something was terribly amiss.

He thought then that it was possible that Mira wasn't betraying him. Rather that she was either being manipulated, or coerced. But what could he do?

"My what?" Mira said, her voice shocked. "Alistair?" She was looking at him as if she didn't even know him. A flash of hurt flickered through him. Did she not trust him to do his best to protect her?

"Mon cherie, this is not your betrothed?" the cunning Chevalier Montreux asked Mira.

Seeing something in Wynne's face, Mira said, "We were keeping it a secret for now. Until it could be announced more formally."

Her performance was weak, though, and the grin on the Chevalier's face told Alistair that he also noticed it. His heart, had it been possible, would have sunk several feet farther.

The Chevalier wanted Mira, and the deeper they got into Orlais, the easier it would be for him to take her. By now, Alistair understood her reactions. She spoke often of freedom, and he knew that, by claiming her as his betrothed, it had looked to her like he was trying to steal her freedom—what little of it remained until they reached a Gray Warden station.

But she may well have just traded him in for a man who would destroy her freedom in ways Alistair would never have dreamed of doing. For a moment, Alistair considered pulling Maric's sword out and finishing it all then and there.

He didn't, though. Because it wasn't his choice. And because he was a foreigner here, which meant he could be under laws he didn't know or understand. Also because, what if she really did like this man, and want to be with him? There were too many factors involved for him to simply attack them unprovoked.

A big part of him, the jealous part, wanted to do it anyway. Especially when she smiled as the Chevalier handed her plate back to her.

It took all of his courage not to stomp too hard as he walked over to the fire to take some food; although the fact that his head was pounding again helped to keep the stomping to a minimum. Fortunately. Somehow, he just knew that if he showed how upset he was, Montreux and probably Ambrose as well would laugh at him.

He ate around the cold knot in his belly as he listened to Mira responding to the Chevalier's story about an Orlesian donkey or something. Thinking of the alternative way of saying it, he thought perhaps the man was telling his own story—the story of an Orlesian Ass.

The thought made him grin, and he looked up and caught Mira's eye. She smiled back, and of a sudden he felt lighter.

Maybe he would just have to show her who was better for her. Bringing his food over, he sat down beside her.

Then, feeling suddenly both very brave yet very foolish, he took the opportunity the situation presented. She could hardly object if he kissed her right now, after agreeing to at least play his betrothed.

So he did.


	6. Part 4

**Part 4: **

"I forgot to tell Wynne that we wanted to keep it quiet for now. Can you forgive me?" Alistair asked her, his golden eyes so close to hers, his breath mingled with hers.

Then he kissed her.

She'd never been kissed before. In fact, it was rare that anyone touched her at all.

It was shocking. It was beautiful. It was strange. His lips caressed hers, then his tongue slid across them. She gasped… and then he was inside her. Their tongues touched, and he teased her with his.

She didn't know when her hands moved, but she noted distantly the feel of his soft skin against her fingers, realizing that he had shaved recently, registering this in some dim part of her mind.

Then he was gone, and she was left dazed and confused.

"So, do you?" he was looking at her expectantly.

She blinked at him. He was asking her a question, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember what it was. He expected an answer, and all she could do was gape at him like a nightfish caught in the glare of a lamp.

His eyebrow rose, and he asked her again, "Can you forgive me?"

"Yes…" she breathed, still lost in that bewildering, sudden kiss. Then, trying to pull herself together, she added, "Of course." She probably would have forgiven him for anything—anything at all—in that moment. Certainly for whatever it was he was asking forgiveness for. If only she could remember what it was!

"Good," he told her, a grin that bordered on triumphant flickering across his face.

He was so confusing! Somehow, she thought she should slap him for that look, but she couldn't make her mind wrap around the reason why.

He went back to eating, and she watched him for a few seconds, realizing she was actually jealous of his food! Then, belatedly, she became aware that she was being incredibly rude, and turned back to her own food.

Conversation flowed around her, and she tried to eat, finding her food to be surprisingly uninteresting and almost foreign now. No wonder people did that so often!

Although, she thought honestly, she would never get anything done if he did that to her a lot. Or ever, really… she was surely going to be useless the rest of the day, as she already couldn't concentrate on a thing that she was supposed to be doing.

Had someone asked her a question? Ah, yes. The Chevalier wanted to know if she was excited to see Orlais' capital.

"I know little of Val Royeaux, Ser. Although I have always heard it is extraordinary." Though she spoke her answer to Chevalier Montreux, every bit of her being was hyper-aware of Alistair beside her. Would anything besides him ever truly be extraordinary to her again?

The man continued his conversation, and she managed to murmur the proper phrases as he spoke, earning her smiles and the occasional pat on the hand. Still dazed, she found herself smiling almost nonstop.

But for some reason, Alistair was becoming more and more taciturn as time went by, withdrawing from conversation. She felt him withdrawing from her, as well, and slowly the elation and the smile began to fade.

What was wrong with him? Perhaps he didn't like kissing her.

The thought deflated her. He was playing his role, that was all. He had no idea that he had turned her entire life and her whole world upside-down with that single kiss.

He heaped more food on her plate, and she found she was really quite hungry. Starving, almost.

Beside her, the Chevalier frowned, watching her eat. "I've heard it's unhealthy for a woman to indulge in excessive consumption," he told her.

She almost choked on the bite she was swallowing. Had he just indirectly called her a pig?

"It's part of being a new Warden," Alistair defended her. "Every new recruit experiences incredible hunger. I hardly think you're in a position to fault her for it."

Humiliated, she managed a small smile of thanks to Alistair, and then excused herself. The Chevalier looked pleased, and she wanted to slap his smug face. How dared he make such a comment to her?

She went into her tent and began to pack for the day's journey, short though it would likely be. She was tearing down her tent when she saw Alistair doing the same. Even in heavy plate armor, he drew her eyes like a magnet.

Somehow, the day felt like a disaster, and it was barely more than half over.

And Maker help her, but she was still starving!


	7. Part 5

**Part 5:**

The Chevalier was going to be nothing but trouble, Alistair thought. But still, he had to allow Mira her own right to choose her future. In Orlais, even the Wardens were below the Chevaliers, if they were not of noble blood. Everything here was different.

They still had to fight and train, but beyond that, they lived at the whim of the Chevalier that had chosen them. So Mira could feasibly become both mistress and Warden, just as any other Warden was allowed to have what life he chose outside of the Gray Wardens. Most didn't, because it was too difficult a balance, but some few did.

He wished that he'd never brought her here, but it was too late now. He began to load his tent and supplies onto the packmule they'd purchased for the trip, pausing only a moment when he found her already there, loading her own gear.

He focused on keeping his hands off of her—he had to, because all he wanted to do was touch her. Despite his good intentions, every touch between them burned itself into his mind. A hand grazing as he locked a strap, or bumping into her as he worked another strap beneath the mule brought its own sort of delicious agony.

Yet as he worked, he couldn't help but wonder. She had responded to his kiss, he was certain of it. It wasn't his first kiss, though it was the first one he ever initiated. She was obviously not practiced at it herself, by any means, but in her inexperience, she had responded. Hadn't she? Or maybe he was mistaking reluctance for inexperience.

He suspected Montreux would know. The thought angered him, and distracted him.

Perhaps he was being unfair. The life of a Chevalier's mistress was quite lavish, according to Leliana. She would have fine surroundings, be showered with gifts and expensive clothes and bright baubles.

If Leliana's stories were to be credited—and he'd never caught her in a lie—the mistresses of the Chevaliers tended to have even more gems and fine clothes than Anora herself, Queen of all Ferelden.

But it was a gilded cage, and little more. They weren't free until their "patron" tired of them. And the worst part, the part that twisted his stomach into terrible knots, was that they were obligated to meet his needs as a man.

Even thinking of it at the time had enraged Alistair. But now that he could see the possibility on the horizon for Mira, it was eating him alive.

Still, though, if she cared for him, and if she wanted that kind of a life, then it wouldn't be a bad thing, would it? For her, anyway. Many women considered it to be a great honor to be claimed by the Chevaliers.

He jerked too hard on a strap, earning himself a quick kick to the shin of his plate boots. He murmured an apology, soothing the mule gently in apology. It was hardly the mule's fault that Mira was infatuated with a beast of a man!

Hope curled up in him again, as if determined to live according to its own will and not the unpredictability of reality. She had responded to his kiss. She really had. And she was looking at him again from under her eyelashes, and behind a strand of soft blond hair.

She looked at him a lot. That was a good thing, right? He knew because he looked at her a lot… he couldn't seem to help himself.

He saw her shiver, and pulled a cloak back out of one of the packs, resecuring it behind him. This time, when he draped it around her shoulders and tied it for her, it wasn't an accident when he let his hand rest against her throat as he tied, and then as he smoothed the cloak across her shoulders.


	8. Part 6

**Part 6:**

She didn't know what to make of him. He walked behind her with Wynne, the pack mule trailing behind him. She could feel him there, and underneath the voices of the two men who walked with her sandwiched uncomfortably between them, she could hear the distant murmur of his voice.

That kiss was still distracting her. And his unexpected kind gesture in draping a cloak around her had tugged at her heart. She wasn't used to anyone even noticing her.

But more than that, she'd felt the heat of his hand on her skin as he tied it. She couldn't stop thinking about it. Wondering what it would be like to feel his hands on her, to feel him—

"Beg your pardon, sir?" she asked stupidly, for perhaps the fifth time.

Montreux had just asked her a question, and she'd not followed it. He smiled indulgently at her, the way one might look at a particularly slow witted person. She gritted her teeth, aware that he had every right to think that of her, given her behavior.

"Is the landscape very much different here than in Ferelden? I've heard that it's nearly inhospitable there." He repeated his question for her.

"No, Ser. I find it's actually little different. Perhaps once we are out of the mountains, it will be otherwise." She had to focus not to turn around and look at Alistair. He had never bored her with pointless, meaningless questions and conversations. Did the man really have to ask such an obvious question? Did he think the mountains looked different from one side to the other?

"Yes," he agreed with a drawl, "I suppose you could be right." He then launched into a long discussion of the various sights of Orlais that it was absolutely necessary for her to see, finishing up with, "and of course, it would be my very great pleasure to take you there, and show you…. A great many things that you do not yet know about."

Now, he was leering at her. Without a doubt.

She was suddenly uncomfortable in the extreme. She didn't know for sure, as she didn't understand the joke, but she was sure something was amiss. She recognized the looks the pair were throwing to each other over her head, she wasn't as stupid as they thought. She might not understand the perverted joke, but she knew one had been made.

"I believe I'll go and speak with Wynne for a few moments," she said stiffly. "If you'll pardon me."

She found herself deftly pulled along by a well-placed, strategic arm. "Now come, I believe she's in deep conversation with your fiancé," Chevalier Montreux told her in a smooth, almost oily voice. "Surely you wouldn't wish to be rude and intrude on them? Perhaps he is seeking advice on how to handle such a… prize… on your wedding night, eh?"

He leered again, and she went from uncomfortable to nearly terrified. It was altogether inappropriate that he should say such things to her!

And deeply disturbing in its own way. She found herself responding to the thought, the idea, with a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach. But it felt wrong, walking beside this man and having that gut-fluttering reaction.

She found her strength and her will through sheer determination. She'd always been socially awkward, so she didn't care if she seemed so now, though it was somehow more humiliating with this very polished and arrogant man.

"I'll take my chances," she told him, making her voice as cool as she could.

Pulling away, she stopped and waited for Wynne and Alistair, while the pair ahead slowed down considerably. It was obvious even to her that they didn't want her to have the private talk with Wynne that she really wanted.

She felt that something terrible was happening, but she knew she was too naïve to really get it. For her, that made it that much more ominous and frightening.

Somehow, she'd felt that becoming a Gray Warden made her stronger, made her better, made everything in the world that much brighter—despite the darkness she felt coiling inside her, somewhere just outside of her conscious awareness.

Instead, she was just as naïve and dumb as ever. She was further out of her element than she'd ever been. She was fearful and felt isolated and alone, surrounded by four people as she was.

If only she could talk to Wynne without the Chevaliers hearing.

If only she'd stayed in the Circle where it was safe. With only abominations, demons, and undead to deal with, rather than frightening, cryptic men with too much charm and a hard edge of cruelty.


	9. Part 7

**Part 7:**

"I think you underestimate her strength and intelligence, Alistair," Wynne told him. "She's stronger than you realize. I certainly agree with you that his motives are unquestionably bad, but it's Mira that I think you are mistaken about."

"But do you know what he wants to do to her?" her asked, seething and gritting his teeth. "And she's just walking along with him, like she doesn't even care!"

"It's easy to see that she's uncomfortable, Alistair. If you aren't able to see it, then perhaps you're looking at the wrong things. I don't think that her hips can give you as much information as you seem to think."

"What?" he objected. "No, no, no. I wasn't looking at… you know… her hind-quarters."

"Certainly," Wynne said, her voice swimming with insincerity.

"I gazed...glanced, in that direction, maybe, but I wasn't staring...or really seeing anything even." He was definitely flustered at this point, nearly having forgotten what they'd been talking about. He glanced again and felt his face go red.

"Of course." It was a bit too smug, he thought.

"I hate you. You're a bad person."

They walked along in silence for a time, until he brought it up again. "What are we going to do? Shouldn't we… I don't know… rescue her, or something?"

"Nobody likes it when others interfere without certainty, Alistair. We should wait to find out what she wants from us. But I fear for her, too, and I'm not certain how much time I still have left."

"I know I have to let her make her own decision," Alistair said by way of agreement, refusing to even think about losing Wynne.

"Do you?" she asked him, her voice carrying doubt.

"Of course I do," he told her, a bit huffily.

"What if she makes a decision you don't like?"

He didn't like the question. "I'll have to live with it, I guess," he finally answered.

Then he saw Montreux put his arm around Mira and practically drag her along for a moment. She went white, and then turned red, and his fists clenched at his side.

"You're going to dent them," broke into his thoughts from Wynne's direction.

"What?" he asked, feeling stupid.

"Your gauntlets. If you keep clenching them like that, you're going to dent them."

"That's silly," he told her, distracted for a moment.

"Perhaps," she replied easily.

"You're not worried about her at all, are you?"

"Of course I am. But I trust her to make the right choices for herself. Can you say the same?"

He wasn't sure. He looked back at her, and was pleased to see Mira waiting for them to catch up. She fell in between him and Wynne, as the Chevaliers slowed down to allow them all to catch up.

Unexpectedly, she grasped his hand, something perfectly natural for her to do if she had indeed been his fiancé. He couldn't help but react by curling his hand around hers and looking at her with a smile.

She blinked at him for a second, then smiled back. A slow, bright, warm smile that opened up his heart just a bit. It felt good; it felt right to be holding her hand.

Well, it did at first, but the closer they got to the other two men, the harder she held on. Until the plates of the gauntlets began to rub together and bite into his hand a bit.

Leaning over, he whispered in her ear, "You're going to dent it."

"What?" she asked him, and he grinned down at her.

"My gauntlet," he said softly to her. "If you keep holding onto it that tightly, you're going to dent it."

When she once more blinked at him in surprise, he laughed. She grinned back, easing the pressure on his gauntlet significantly.

She had a beautiful smile. He wanted to see it more often.


	10. Part 8

**Part 8:**

She didn't know what it was, but a pressure began to build inside her. It was an unaccountable rage, a sort of strong uncoiling of that "thing" inside her. She'd felt it before, and each time…

"More Darkspawn," Alistair said beside her. "They seem to crop up everywhere, don't they?"

She thought for a second that he'd gone somewhat crazy, until the ground erupted beneath her, knocking her backwards as a Hurlock emerged.

She didn't pause to wonder how he knew, Darienne had always seemed to just know, as well. Several other Darkspawn surged up from the ground, and Alistair threw back his head, a discordant, sharp bellow rolling out from him, enhanced by magic.

She moved away, and tossed a glyph at Wynn's feet that would knock any attackers backwards. Protecting the healer always came first for her. Then she turned her attention inward, and called to the ancestral spirit of the spider.

As it dropped from the realm-beyond and into the fray, she turned her thoughts once more to magic, discharging energy from the staff directly at the Hurlock in front of her.

She watched in fascination as Alistair slashed at a Genlock. The diminutive creature slashed with its sword, but Alistair swung hard with his shield, catching it beneath the jaw. Its head snapped back, and she had to work to ignore the foul-scented blood that sprayed into the air, landing on her with a patter barely heard above the sounds of battle.

The two Chevaliers were locked into battle some yards away, and she realized that they were in trouble. A part of her wished she could just let them die, but she knew she didn't have it in her—no matter how nasty the man could be sometimes—and moved to help.

She called once more to the ancient animal ancestors, and sent the spider to their aid. Then she targeted one of the attacking Hurlocks and focused until her magic took control of his mind. When he was confused enough by her psychic attack, she delved instantly into the monster's mind and made his nightmares real to him. He stood quaking in terror, even as Alistair arrived and slashed his head off in a single swing.

Blood rose again to blanket the air, heavy and dark. She shuddered to think what that blood alone was capable of, if handled or ingested without the help of the mages.

At last, the battle was over, and she slipped slightly in the cold blood of the monstrous Darkspawn as she moved to inspect one and divest him of his coin and a health poultice, covered in slimy, thick blood. She cleaned the package off before tossing it in the packs.

"The Darkspawn are coming into Orlais?" Ser Ambrose said incredulously. "I thought the Blight had been stopped in Ferelden!"

"The Archdemon was killed," Wynne told him, "but that doesn't mean they've all crawled back into their holes yet."

"I want a bath," Mira said. She always felt that way after a fight with Darkspawn. Dirty, from the inside out.

Alistair gave her an odd look, before turning away, and she felt hurt. Had she said something wrong? Bits of blood, brain, and bone clung to her and her garments, and she wanted to be free of the stench. Was that so bad?

"I agree," Wynne said to her, her voice comforting. "A bath would be lovely. I believe there's a small town not far ahead. We could clean up at the inn there, if they have one. If not, the Chantry usually has a place for travelers to use for such things."

"Excellent idea, ma'am. We should get a move on," Montreux agreed, sweeping his hand widely ahead of himself, indicating that Mira should precede him.

She could think of no way to politely refuse, so she gritted her teeth and started walking. To her surprise and pleasure, Alistair fell in beside her before Ser Ambrose could take up his position on her other side.

She wanted to take his hand again, but his presence alone was bracing. It would have to do, because she was too dirty for anyone to want to touch her. Somehow, it never occurred to her that he was dirty as well.


	11. Part 9

**Part 9:**

"You don't like being dirty, do you?" Alistair asked when Montreux's attention was momentarily diverted to Ambrose.

"I despise it," Mira told him. "I… well. The place I lived was always meticulously clean."

He wondered, but he didn't ask. He could only assume that she'd grown up in the Circle, but he had no way to know. Who knew what all had happened during the recent upheaval.

He felt a sense of inevitability draw over him. She would never live this life. She was beautiful. She deserved beautiful things. She deserved to be safe and live in comfort.

She deserved to be clean.

There wasn't a way to live this life and stay clean. It was simply impossible. It couldn't ever be done. Fighting was dirty, and messy, and it was tough. It was a hard life, and maybe women in general weren't cut out for it.

It made sense, in a sexist sort of way. He felt a bit embarrassed to even think that way, but the fact was that she really wanted a life different from the only thing he had to offer. But she was a Warden. Surely Riordan saw something in her that was worth having on the battlefield besides just magic?

"Alistair?"

He looked at her, trying to breathe again as his air was stolen by her beauty—even dirty and dusty and covered with droplets of stinking gore.

"What?" he asked, and realized he sounded cross. Too late now, though…

She looked away, color rising across her face. "Nothing, sorry."

"No, go ahead and ask me. I'm just thinking too much, that's all. It's stupid, I really shouldn't do it at all."

She shook her head. "It's nothing, really." Then she pointed ahead, "I think I see the town."

He frowned. She was trying to distract him from whatever she'd wanted to say. He'd scared her off. And now there he was frowning again!

The path narrowed, and he placed his hand on the small of her back to help guide her along the trail. She flinched, and he felt like a bumbling fool. She didn't want him to touch her, that much was clear.

Miserable and even more upset, he followed her down the path, negotiating shortly with the Innkeeper for two rooms. One for him, and one for the women. He left the Chevaliers on their own—they were not part of his party, even if they had forced their way into it.

The rooms were good ones, closest to the baths. That should make Mira happy, at least. It wasn't as if he were able to do it. She was so beautiful, so innocent, so… good. Maybe that was the problem.

The Chantry had always warned him that he would come to no good in life.

He watched her and Wynne go into their room and turned to go into his own.

"Alistair, please—" she was cut off as the Chevaliers walked past into the baths.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Well, I was going to say, you please take your bath first. Mira and I need to have a little talk. Okay?"

"Sure," he said. "Whatever you like."

She said nothing more, simply shutting the door and leaving him standing silently in the hallway.

He sighed and went inside. Some time later, the Chevaliers walked past, talking and laughing, heading down to the common room for an ale. Or food. Or something. He didn't want to think about it any further.

He went and had his bath, though it did little to nothing to ease his aching heart. He had lost Duncan, and then he'd found the Warden he'd followed to be a callous, hard man. This same Warden had charmed the Nobles of Ferelden with lies and trickery, to the point where they accepted him when he overthrew Loghain.

But that hadn't been the worst part. Although he had deposed Loghain, he'd actually turned the man into a Warden! He had rewarded him after his horrible, vile treachery!

Now this.

His life was falling apart. He sat quietly in the baths, head in his hands. Then finally, with a sigh, he went into his room with a light knock on the door to let Mira know the room was clear for her use.

He heard the doors open and close, and laid back to try to take a bit of a rest. He had a feeling that it would be a long night of tossing and turning for him.


	12. Part 10

**Part 10:**

Mira was finally getting to take a bath. She had insisted that Wynne take her bath first, so that she could go and eat and get back for a rest more quickly. Besides which, their talk had been… enlightening.

In a very ugly way. She understood now what the Chevalier wanted from her. She understood his rights. She understood her lack of them. She understood a great deal more about some of the things he had said to her.

And she was scared. She was, actually, very scared. She didn't know how she was going to escape this situation. Wynne hadn't pointed it out directly, but had indirectly expressed that if Mira wanted… someone else… she should probably focus hard on figuring out a good excuse to go back to Ferelden.

The problem was, for Mira, this was an issue in and of itself. Once simply one of many faces in the mage's Circle, she was now an outlaw, a renegade… an apostate.

It was almost an epithet, that word. It even sounded coarse and harsh when said aloud. And it was hers now.

She had deferred to Wynne when Wynne made her points about returning to Ferelden. But she knew she could never go back. She would be hunted and caught. And probably even Alistair, who claimed to no longer be a Templar, would hate her for what she really was.

She couldn't stand for him to find out. He would definitely hate her.

She looked up with a wan smile when Wynne popped her head in.

"Baths are ready for you, Warden." Wynne often called her that, as if she could encourage and strengthen Mira's resolve with just that one word.

She was right, and Mira stood up and grabbed the pack containing clothes and bathing supplies. Locking the door behind her, she went into the baths and poured the waiting buckets into the tub.

Soon, hot water was easing her. She released her hair and it flowed out into the water around her. It was her only rebellion against Circle rules. They wanted hair short, or bound. So hers was bound. All the time.

But it was hers, and it was long like she wanted it. The others told her it was wild and ugly and out of control. And maybe they were right. But it was like her mother's. That made it worth every bit of mockery that she took about it.

When she was done, she realized she hadn't brought her brush, and decided it was the best idea to go to her room and brush it there, anyway. Another traveler might like to use the tub.

So she quickly washed the dirty robe in the vacated bathwater, and rinsed it with some of the water from the spigot. She had already filled the buckets she'd emptied, and they sat at the hearth heating for the next person to need the baths.

Content that she had finished, she went back down the hallway to the room she shared with Wynne. But as she sat down to brush her hair, she realized that she had left her hair clasp in the baths. Hoping no one had found it, she hurried out to retrieve it. It was a short way, and there was a lantern hanging at the other end of the hallway, so she didn't take the lamp with her this time.

As she moved down the hallway, she heard the Chevaliers coming up the stairs, clanking and clanging in their armor as they came. They stopped at the top of the stairs as someone else came up to them, and started talking.

Not wanting them to catch her in the hallway, and hoping they couldn't see well into the shadows, she scurried into the baths and clipped the hair clasp quickly into the top of her hair. It wouldn't hold, of course, but it didn't need to past her getting back to her rooms.

She stepped back out, and headed for her room, the trio still talking at the other end.

She didn't make it. As she passed the small alcove between her rooms and the baths, powerful arms that wrapped around her like steel grabbed her. Her scream was prevented by a hand across her mouth, and she found herself suddenly with her back against the wall and her body wedged between a side wall and the decorative table in the alcove.

In the gloom, she could barely make out Alistair's face. He pressed against her, fitting them both—barely—into the tiny alcove. His finger pressed against his lips, and she nodded.

Then his arm was around her, under her wet, messy hair and pressing against her back. It was like a hot brand against her skin, and she realized that she was wearing a very light robe—her magical robe being in her rooms to dry from being washed. He was wearing a robe, as well, heavier and thicker than the one she was wearing.

"Listen," he told her softly, so quiet she barely heard him.

She strained her ears towards the men down the hallway.

"—'s the one we want. I'm sure of it. We tracked him here. We have to kill him and the mage he's with." The voice was unfamiliar, with an accent she didn't know.

Her eyes flew to Alistair's, and he nodded. She felt it more than saw it, but her heart sank. They were after Wynne and Alistair.

"You can have them. But I want the young one." That was unquestionably Montreux.

"She's the one we're after," the man sounded irritated now.

"I thought you wanted the old one?" Montreux asked.

"She's as good as dead already. She's too old to be a threat, and she's got no claim to the throne by right or by blood. The mage is an apostate, and a valuable one to the Queen's enemies. She's to die as well."

Mira gasped, surprised. How could she be a threat to the Queen? They did mean her, didn't they?

"What was that?" the man sounded worried, almost alarmed.

Mira's heart raced, and she tried to stifle the sob of fear that was rising in her throat.

Then she didn't have to try anymore. Alistair's lips slipped over hers, and she was lost again in his touch, his taste, his arms around her. She felt his body against hers, so powerful even in his robes.

The thunder of her heart roared in her ears, and she clung desperately to his chest where her hands were trapped between their bodies.

Dimly, distantly, she heard, "There's no one there. You're hearing things."

"We'd better take this elsewhere, anyway. Just to be sure," the unfamiliar voice said.

The sounds of footsteps drawing further away were lost in the feel of Alistair's tongue slipping between her lips, teasing and tempting her own. His hand tangled in her hair, holding her head still so that he could plunder her more deeply.

She could only hold on, else the world fall away from her and she be lost in the Fade, dreaming of this man holding her forever.

His other hand pulled her slightly away from the wall, still wrapped around her waist. She felt herself pulled more snugly against his body, felt him jutting against her through the cloth of their robes.

She moaned, and realized that his idea of kissing her to keep her silent wasn't working out the way he intended. Her breathing was ragged, and loud, and she couldn't hold back the soft sounds that were rising from her as he kissed her fiercely, possessively.

It wasn't like him. Yet it was so very like him in another way. So like him to do the unexpected.

Then the moment was shattered before she could lose complete and total control and try to climb him in her desperate need.

Her hair clasp fell, far too loose in her hair to withstand the movement of her head and his hand. As it clattered to the ground, they broke apart, both panting and shocked.

"I—" she said, confused and dazzled. Uncertain.

"It's okay," he said raggedly, his voice husky and deepened. "I think they're gone. For a while now, really."

He stepped closer to her, his face thrown into harsh relief by the distant lantern at the top of the stairs. "Look," he started, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I know you don't want me to touch you, you've made that—"

It was her turn to touch his lips with a finger.

"That's not true," she told him. "That's not true at all. I don't want—"

"There you are! Come see who's here, Alistair!" Wynne broke in from the other end of the hallway. "You come, too, Mira." She sounded happy, excited.

Alistair looked at her for a second longer, before walking off down the hallway. "I'll be right there. Just going to put my armor on."

Wynne disappeared, and Alistair's door closed behind him.

Mira laid her hand across her fluttering belly. She didn't want him to touch her when she was dirty because she didn't want to make him dirty. She didn't want to taint the boyish kindness that was Alistair.

And she didn't want to go with the Chevalier, either. A tremor of dread ran through her. She had to get away from them all. She had to escape the Chevalier, and she had to save Alistair—from her.

She took a series of deep breaths, the kind that she would have taken to prepare herself for battle or for especially difficult magic rites. Then, thus girded, she headed to the common room to find out who their guests were.


	13. Part 11

**Part 11:**

Alistair stood for a moment against the door, trying to gather his thoughts. Maker, but he wanted a drink.

He started pulling on armor as fast as he could go. He had to go warn Wynne that there were assassins on their tail—and most likely the Chevaliers, as well, who for all intents and purposes, seemed to be collaborating with them.

He was unsurprised by the fact that Mira was an apostate, except that he wondered why and how she could be so innocent, not being part of the Circle. But given that he now knew he was the target of Anora and Royce's manhunt, he knew he couldn't trust what he thought he knew about her.

She might be naïve, but he knew for sure that he was. The only person he trusted was Wynne, and then only barely. She had started nagging him about drinking and about his duty lately.

He ran a hand through his hair. He didn't drink that much. Not really.

Not compared to, say, Oghren, anyway.

And he had no more duty. No people, no clan, no one. Even Wynne admitted she would be gone soon.

Now he was escorting some insane apostate mage around and trying to save her from herself—when he didn't even know if she wanted to be saved at all!

Darkspawn take it all, he needed a drink!

Pulling his gear on as quickly as he could, ignoring the cold of the wet tunic and breeches, he stopped just long enough to lock the door behind him. He clomped down the hallway, hearing voices below in the common room that seconded as a tavern.

Familiar voices. Welcome voices. He stomped down the stairs, happy at least to see the irascible Oghren, and the sweet but intimidating Leliana. He almost didn't mind that even Zevran was there.

"What are you guys doing here?" he asked, happy to see them.

"We're coming with you." Leliana said, her voice accepting no argument on the matter.

"Been hearin' tales that ya been actin' like a big baby and drinkin' like a sodding puddle," Oghren growled, scowling at Alistair like a thunder golem.

"You can still drink me under the table," Alistair told him, "so I've got a lot of making up to do." He waved the barmaid over and asked for an ale.

"I'll be drinkin' ye under the table when I'm dead, boy," Oghren answered dismissively.

"Come on, Oghren. I've already got Wynne on my case, surely you're not going to natter at me like a mother, too?" he was irritated, the joy he'd felt at seeing his friends diminished by what amounted to Oghren telling him off.

Then Mira joined them, and ordered some food. Alistair studiously ignored her, though he couldn't stop being aware of her. Every sense screamed her presence.

The introductions were made, and then Mira's food was there, and his ale. He drank it like it could save his life—though at best it could save his heart.

He caught Oghren looking at him with a look of disgusted irritation. "Don't swill it, boy. If yer gonna be a proper broken-down drunk, the least ye can do is ta drink it properly!"

"It's my ale, Oghren. Go to the Darkspawn if you think you're going to tell me how to drink it."

"Ye keep drinkin' like that, and ain't no decent woman ever gonna get with ya. Prolly not even the indecent ones, neither." And Oghren laughed.

"Weren't you the one that told me that 'freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose'?" he asked the nattering dwarf.

"Tis true, I did said that. But ye ain't s'pposed ta listen to me, boy! Ye ain't no dwarf, ye can't drink like that, yer body can't take it."

"I'm going to die young anyhow, so what does it matter?" He took another draw off the ale.

"Listen, boy. When Branka was down there in them deep roads, I weren't happy. I couldn't move on cause I didn't know what was up down there. An' I couldn't have her with me, neither." He sighed and shifted on the bench, drinking from his own glass.

"Ye gots people what's depend on ya. Ye can't be drunk all the time. Ye needs yer wits about ya." Oghren drank another chug of ale. "Ye might not have family, an' that's sodding crappy. But ye gots others, and ye needs ta pull yerself together for them."

"No one's relying on me, Oghren. And nobody really cares, nobody really knows me," Alistair said.

"I care," Mira said softly.

The thick ale was already affecting him, he realized. But he couldn't stop the anger that welled up in him.

"What do you know about it? Have you ever cared about anyone in your life? You're a mage. Do mages even feel anything at all? I mean, look at Wynne. She's following some deadbeat loser drunk around, and it doesn't bother her in the least. And the only reason you're around me at all is because you need someone to get you to the Wardens—the OTHER wardens!" He thumped the cup of ale on the table and glared at her through a red haze.

Her face got whiter and whiter with every word, until she looked as pale as a wraith. When he was done speaking, she stood up and slapped him, the sound resounding bitterly in the small pool of quiet that had fallen over their table.

"Don't you talk about Wynne that way, or I'll blow your head off with a fireball!"

He felt like someone had hit him in the stomach with a Nug Crusher. What was he saying? What was he thinking? She was right, he shouldn't have talked about Wynne that way.

"He's drunk, Mira. I've come to expect these things from him. Perhaps we should retire to our room to eat." Wynne stood up, graceful and serene as always.

"Wynne—" he began.

"Leliana, we have three beds, would you care to take the third?" she cut him off, dismissing him as if he weren't even there.

The Bard got up and followed the other two women, grabbing Mira's plate and taking it with her. Alistair realized the delicate mage had almost missed another meal. Thanks to him, this time.

He dropped his head in his hands, and shot Zevran a look of pure spiteful fury when he laughed. "You've gotten better with the ladies, Alistair. I never thought I'd see the day!"

Then he strolled off towards the rooms, no doubt having one as near the women's quarters as he could get.

Oghren stood up, too. "Freedom's just another word for 'sodding lonely,' boy," he told Alistair before walking off up the stairs in the wake of the vanishing Zevran.

Alistair dropped his head into his hands, pushing the flask of ale away. Then it struck him that he hadn't told them about the conversation he'd overheard earlier. And now he couldn't remember what it was. Someone wanted to kill him, didn't they?

**Part 12:**

She collapsed on the bed, only her training keeping her from breaking into tears.

"I'm sorry," Wynne said. "He's been like that ever since Royce betrayed him by making Teyrn Loghain into a Warden. He's been drinking every time we stop in at an Inn…"

Her face softened and she sat down beside Mira. "You've got far too much control over your emotions, child. I think you took your mage training too seriously."

Mira smiled at the kind healer. "I'm okay." The catch in her voice shamed her. She should be above that.

Leliana sat down across from her. "I've never seen him act that way. The first time I really saw him genuinely angry was when—well. When all that happened with the Warden, and Anora."

"Queen Anora?" Mira asked, smothering a sniffle.

"Yes," Leliana said, "you see—"

"They were talking about the Queen. They said they were supposed to kill me, that the Queen thought I was a threat. At first I thought they meant Wynne, but—"

"They who?" Wynne interrupted her.

"The men talking to the Chevaliers. They said they were to kill Alistair—I think—and the mage with him. And then they said they weren't talking about you, and then…" and then she was crying.

"Why would the Queen think I'm a threat to her? I'm a mage. I'll never be anything but a mage." She fought to get herself back under control. "How could I possibly be a threat to anyone? Anyone at all?"

"Don't you know who you are?" Wynne asked her.

"Yes, but it doesn't matter as long as I'm a mage," Mira said.

"Wait," Leliana burst in. "Who is she?"

"I'm Anora's sister. We were twins, but not identical," Mira told her, though she knew she'd been asking Wynne.

"But you died when you were—" Leliana stopped abruptly. "Oh. No, you didn't."

"The Mac Tirs didn't want anyone to know," Wynne said.

"I didn't know you knew who I was," Mira said, still fighting tears, her heart breaking from the horrible things Alistair had said to her.

"Of course I knew. I remembered you well. You were quite well known amongst the faculty, as well. You were exceptional at all of your lessons. Possibly one of the best students ever."

"You never said anything!" Mira accused.

"Neither did you," Wynne said. "And you are a Warden now, so it's really immaterial, isn't it? If you had wanted to talk about it, you would have brought it up."

A sharp rap sounded on the door, and Wynne went to answer it. Alistair stood swaying slightly, until he leaned against the doorjam.

"I wanted to talk to Mira, and I had something important to tell you. A conversation. I think. It was important, but I forget."

"Go away, Alistair. I've already told them about the conversation the Chevaliers had with those other men," Mira said, her body rigid and lacking its usual sensual movement.

"Oh yeah! Somebody wants to kill me! And you," he said, pointing wildly at Wynne, nearly falling into the room.

Mira walked over to push him out the door. As she was shutting it behind him, he stuck his food in the way.

"Are you coming with me tomorrow?" he asked drunkenly.

"Coming where?"

"I'm going to go back to Orzammar. You can come with me. Nobody's going to kill us when we're surrounded by drunk dwarves," he cackled with glee.

"I'm not talking about this with you right now," she told him.

"Fine!" he blurted, obviously angry again. "Stay with the Chevalier. He'll take you home and make you a high paid whore. I guess that's better than being around me, huh?"

Mira could only stand and stare at him in shock for a moment. Then, with barely any change in her expression at all, she walked over and grabbed up the plate of food that Leliana had brought up for her.

She dumped it over his head, slapped it against his chest, and then shut the door in his face. Then, for good measure, she yelled through the door, "Yes, it is!"

At which point, she couldn't hold it back any longer. She sank down on the bed and cried. What had happened to the sweet man whose cot she had slept draped over all night out of sheer worry and concern?

He was gone and replaced by this… this… monster.

"I know it's no excuse, Mira, but that's why Wardens don't drink as a general rule. The drink and the taint…" Wynne fell silent when she realized that there was really no way to excuse Alistair's wretched behavior. "I'm sorry, Mira. I thought he was going to be okay after we met you. And now it's all a worse mess than it was before."


	14. Part 12

**Part 12:**

Alistair stood in the hallway. Food made its way down his face and off of his armor onto the ground. Why did it always seem to end this way? He sighed. It wasn't even good food.

He almost went to bed, but then realized he should have a bath. Grabbing the Templar robe he'd kept, he headed for the bathing room. Stripping quickly, he lit only one candle. He intended to just get the food of off himself, then go to bed.

The hearth fire had almost died, since the Inn only kept it up for the evening hours, not into the night. But the water in the buckets was still hot enough to give him a quick bath. He sank into it, leaving the buckets unfilled, too drunk to care how rude it was.

That was the good thing about being a cheap drunk. One hearty ale and he could forget everything. He only wished he'd gotten to finish it up. He'd be happily snoring on the table downstairs, rather than awake and trying to forget what he'd just said.

Had he really said it out loud? Had he really thought such a thing? About Mira?

A slight sound in the room was all that alerted him. It was enough, even in his drunken state. He bellowed, letting magic infuse it from his training as a Champion. He heard a body hit the floor, and someone cursed as the magic staggered him.

But Alistair was down to his undercloth, and nothing more. He was in serious trouble here. He was in range of his weapon and shield and he grabbed both in the few seconds the bellow had granted him.

Then there were running feet in the hall outside, and even as Alistair lowered himself to one knee to keep the shield between him and his attackers, his back to the wall for added protection, the door flew open.

The others flowed in, and the fight was on in earnest. What surprised Alistair the most, though, was that they'd come to save him at all. He would have let himself rot in the deepest corner of the Fade.

There were more in there than he'd thought possible, and he found that he was having difficulties standing up to them. He feared he'd be unconscious soon. Pain tore at him, driving the alcohol from his system in a surge of adrenaline.

He dodged an uppercut, sleekly cutting off a dagger thrust with the shield. Then he hacked low with the sword, taunting the assassin as he fell, his belly open and screams turned to strangled gurgles as his guts spilled out the new opening in his abdomen.

He stepped over the fallen man, closing on the next. With an upward slash, he drew the rogue's attention to his sword. Then he used what strength he had left to batter once, twice, then three times at the other man with the massive shield.

The would-be assassin fell to the ground, writhing, with multiple broken bones and a punctured lung. He was out of the fight and an assassin with a crooked nose was even now trying to circle around Mira, who had turned into a savage bear.

Before he could make it there, though, she swiped with one powerful paw and ripped the man's face open, blood spuming across the room in a slow arc. She lunged forward, her jaws fixing on his throat until she pulled back, bringing blood and flesh with her.

He stared at her in shock, the battle over with that last act. A shiver ran down his spine as she growled and dropped the gory bundle of dripping flesh. The bear stared at him with too-intelligent eyes, and started for the door.

Then more battle in the hallway caught their attention, and they all ran for the door. There, the Chevaliers were engaged with four more assassins, to their surprise.

These were quickly dispatched with the five of them added to the fray. Although Alistair wasn't sure who was fighting whom.

The battle was over then, and Montreux turned to them. "I'm glad to see you all alive. These men approached us earlier, wanting us to help them kill you."

"I don't trust you," Alistair told the other man.

"Alistair, you're drunk. Perhaps you should go to bed," Wynne told him.

He shot her an angry look, then decided she was right. "I'm fine," he told her.

"You told him you wanted me for yourself," Mira accused him, surprising Alistair.

Then he remembered. That was the conversation he'd overheard!

"Of course I did," the suave Chevalier said, walking over to her. He reached out and ran a hand down the side of her cheek, human once more. "Only a fool wouldn't want you."

He cleared his throat and stepped away from her, "But I want you to come to me willingly."

Alistair wanted to hit him. He wanted to sink the sword into his black, black heart. He was a lying liar.

Everyone was staring at him. Had he said that out loud?

"Had a bit much to drink tonight?" Montreux drawled. "I suggest you watch yourself while in Orlais, Ser. Most Chevaliers will not be nearly as forgiving as am I."

Then the man turned back to Mira. "I hope to see you in the morning, My Lady."

She muttered something Alistair couldn't hear, and then stood stiffly as Montreux took her bloody, messy hand and pulled it towards his lips. He stopped when he saw the blood there, and then lowered her hand, patting it with his other one. "Perhaps another time, no?"

Then he went into his room, followed by Ambrose, who shot a superior, amused look at Alistair before going into his room.

"You should really stop drinking, Alistair. Everything you think falls straight out of your mouth the second you think it. No matter how unrealistic, stupid, inane, or even downright insane it is." Thus saying, Leliana followed the other women into the room, closing it behind her.

The lock on the door sliding home made him cringe. It sounded final and cold.

He caught Oghren and Zevran looking at him with looks mingled with pity and disgust. "What?" he snapped, wobbling into his room, not bothering to lock it behind him.

The clatter of his armor as it was dumped just inside the door startled him, and then he heard the lock click home.

Moments later, he covered his head with a pillow as Oghren's snoring erupted from the stuffed chair near the door. Why were they even bothering?

But sleep claimed him before he could ask the question. Or not. He wasn't sure.


	15. Part 13

**Part 13:**

"What's the news from Ferelden, Leliana?" Wynne asked when the women were safely within their room, cleaning themselves with basins of water pumped out of the single cold hand pump in the room.

"Terrible," Leliana told her. "Anora has already passed several laws that have come down hard on the necks of the Freeholders. Most of the nobles support her actions, because it strengthens their lands. But it forces the Freeholders to claim fealty until death by the end of the next year."

"What? The Freeholders claiming fealty? That sets us back some three hundred years!" Wynne was outraged, Mira realized, having never heard so much emotion in the older woman's voice since she'd known her.

"It gets worse," Leliana went on. "She's got many of the less scrupulous Banns entirely in her camp, and most of the nobles as a group. But she's stepping hard on the commoners, and the military are very unhappy as well. Most of them are of commoner stock, and their families are suffering already after just a few weeks of her uncontested rule."

"Royce," Wynne said, her voice decisive as well as derisive.

"Yes. He was always like that," Leliana agreed.

"Who's Royce?" Mira asked, feeling confused by the conversation in general. She'd never done well in politics.

"He's the Warden that Duncan rescued when the Couslands were attacked," Wynne told her. "We followed him, thinking that he would help stop the blight and help restore order to Ferelden. In the beginning, we all believed in him."

"But he was cruel from the beginning," Leliana told her. "He was always stealing, cheating, lying, and bullying—when he wasn't outright extorting. He is not a nice person, and since he's noble, he holds the commoners in very low regard."

"Oh," Mira said, her voice sounding small and still confused.

"When Arl Eamon called the Landsmeet, Royce allowed Riordan to put Loghain through the Joining, rather than have him put to death. He considered it a good strategic move, the more Wardens to kill the Archdemon, the better." Wynne continued.

"Aye," Leliana added, "and he then set himself up as King, and took Anora as his wife to strengthen his claim. When at last the time came to kill the Archdemon, he sent Loghain to his death. Mostly because Morrigan wouldn't pay him to help her perform her ritual. She said it couldn't be done that way, but he wouldn't listen. He didn't care. If there was nothing in it for him, he cared nothing for it."

"And now he's King, with nothing to stop him from his extortionate ways."

"I didn't expect him to act so quickly to oppress the people," Leliana said sadly.

Wynne just sighed and shook her head. "We should get some rest now."

Soon they were in their respective beds, little more than cots, really. But it was the closest that Mira had come to a bed since she'd fled the Circle. The comfort of it should have drawn her quickly into sleep, but it didn't.

Instead, she rolled and tossed and tried not to think… which only made her think more.


	16. Part 14

**Part 14:**

Alistair came into the small stable to pack his remaining gear on the mule, only to find Mira there ahead of him. Her hair was now primly done up in the single chignon at the neck that she preferred. He missed the wild tangle of softness from the night before…

He turned his mind away from such things. Maker, but he was losing it. He couldn't think straight while this woman was around!

He came around the other side of the mule, and said good morning to Mira. She ignored him, continuing to pile her and Wynne's things onto the animal's tack. Oh Maker, he had really upset her. He only remembered bits of it—but it was enough.

He reached over to grab a strap, and got in her way. With a quick snapping jerk, she pulled the lace tight over his finger.

"Ow!" he protested, looking at her in hopes of some sympathy. "That hurt!"

She looked at him, as serene and calm as usual. And just as lovely.

"You should pay more attention where you put things like your nose and your hands," she told him with perfect calm.

"Your nose looks good. You'd never even know it was broken yesterday," he said. Then he wished he could kick himself when her eyes narrowed, ever-so-slightly. Uh oh.

"I'm really sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Save it, Alistair. If you were sorry, you wouldn't have kept doing it over again all night long."

"I was drunk, it wasn't my fault!"

"Really? Oghren sat on you and poured it down your throat?" She walked out of the stable, and he followed.

"Stop following me."

"But I need to talk to you!"

She stopped, a few steps ahead of him, and started casting. Before he could stop himself, he walked straight into her repulsion glyph. He landed on the ground, his breath knocked out of him.

He lay clutching his head, looking up at her. "That was mean." He had a bad hangover, and the loud noise as well as the concussion from her glyph's magic left him still aching, his head throbbing and pounding in rhythm with his heart.

"I said, 'stop following me'," she reminded him. "If you'd listen for a change—at a time besides when you want someone to make the hard decisions for you—then you'd not be in that position.

"Speaking of which, you really owe Oghren and Wynne both apologies. If you want them to keep sticking around, you should probably do it quickly."

He dropped his head back onto the ground as she walked away, groaning. He supposed he deserved it after what he'd said last night. But was it his fault he couldn't hold his ale?

When the worst of it had subsided, he went inside to find the rest of them at a table, chatting and talking freely. There was a general air of worry about them, but they seemed determined to enjoy their breakfast together.

Until he sat down. Then they all got quiet, and he tried to be glad that they weren't giving him an even worse headache. Except that the ache in his heart was so much worse than the ache in his head.


	17. Part 15

**Part 15: **

Mira was sandwiched between the two Chevaliers again. She had tried to go back and join the other women, but Montreux continually sidestepped her, drawing her back with some excuse or another that polite society wouldn't allow her to get out of easily. To protest would be impropriety, and she wasn't not skilled, or perhaps intelligent enough to extricate herself.

Her thoughts had turned inwards. She'd spoken more sharply to Alistair than she could remember having ever spoken to anyone since arriving at the Circle. She was overcome with guilt and hurt. She knew he had simply spoken out of anger and personal pain.

But what was her excuse? She was a trained mage. She knew how to control and subjugate her emotions. She had no reason or excuse for the harsh things she had blurted at him.

Tears burned at her eyes as she walked, realizing that she was dreadfully afraid he would find out she was an apostate. That she had run from the Circle and from the Templars. She could feel his Templar magic—she knew that even though he wasn't now one, he was trained as one.

She had to get away. They would make a new phylactery and they would wall her in again.

She fought back a sob of fear, walking along stoically between the two men who chatted easily over her head as if she wasn't even there.

The day wore on, until all of them were walking in silence. They'd eaten as they walked, not even stopping for lunch. It was as if all of them agreed that she had to be dropped off at the Wardens as quickly as possible.

A new sort of prison. She had begun to realize it more and more as they walked. She'd started to see being a Warden as being connected to being with Alistair, but the night before had wakened her to the idea that this was unrealistic, even stupid.

She would be dropped off and they would all leave her. She would be alone and trapped once more.

Her fear and anxiety mounted, until it was at a fever pitch. They began to set up a camp for the night, and she worked in silence, unaware that multiple eyes watched her for various reasons.

All she could think was that she had to escape. Even Wynne, sweet and grandmotherly, wanted to hand her over to the Wardens and go.

She wanted to be free. No matter the cost, she had to be free. And she wouldn't let that nagging pain of losing Alistair—who for all intents and purposes was already lost, his disdain for her being made clear the night before—stop her from fleeing back to Ferelden.

When darkness fell over the camp, she crept out and away from the camp. She struggled to contain the painful feelings that rose from her.

Slowly, so slowly, stopping with a pounding heart every time she heard a noise, she drew away from the camp.

"Going somewhere?" a strange voice asked her. She turned to see a man in leathers leaning against a tree, toothpick in his mouth and a nonchalant attitude written over his entire body.

"You certainly made our job a lot easier," he told her.

Before she could cast a glyph or even move, her hands were behind her and another hand was firmly over her mouth. She was bound and gagged almost immediately, with minimal fuss for her captors, despite the fact that she struggled in terror.

She was carried rudely over someone's shoulder, tears leaking from her eyes in a steady stream.

"We didn't even have to go into the camp to get her," her captor said, and she heard the sounds of metal armor. She was dumped onto the ground, and landed in the midst of a group of Orlesian Guardsmen.

"Montreux will be pleased," the Commander said. He tossed the assassin-turned-kidnapper a bag of coins, and the pair of them left, one pretending to tip his hat to the terrified and bound Mira.

She spent the rest of the night lying trussed in the back of a wagon that held several cages. She wept bitterly, until someone threw something at the wagon, hitting it with a rough thump. "Shut up already!"

She swallowed the pain and misery, surprised they'd even heard her, muffled by the painful gag.

An hour or two before dawn, she was dragged out and forced to bathe herself with a buck of cold water. Then a dress—quite opulent and rich—was thrown over her head by a leering Guardsman. He groped her briefly before pulling it down, grinning at her, knowing she couldn't protest.

She slapped him and he cuffed her, she held her burning cheek, glaring at him.

"Leave her be. I told you to dress her, not assault her," snarled the Commander. "Montreux will kill you if he finds out you've touched her. If I don't kill you for insubordination."

"Sorry Commander," the soldier said, clearly not sorry in the least.

He pulled the clip out of her hair, and let it fall. She protested, and he yanked the clip out of her reach, tossing it onto the pile that was her mage robe and backpacks. He sneered at her arrogantly and then chained her hands.

"Let's go!" the Commander shouted, and for the first time, Mira realized their numbers had more than tripled over the remainder of the night.


	18. Part 16

**Part 16:**

"Where's Mira?" Wynne called from her tent.

"What do you mean?" Leliana asked. The companions began to gather up together.

"She's not here. Her packs are gone," Wynne said, standing at the entrance to an empty tent. "Not even her bedroll."

"She's run off," Oghren pointed out needlessly.

"But why?" Wynne said. "She was happy to be going to the Wardens. Or she seemed to be. Wasn't she?"

The others shrugged. "I don't know. She's so quiet, and she—"

"I'm going after her," Alistair burst out. "She's not safe. She should be with the Wardens."

"Do you seriously think she wants you to go with her?" Wynne asked him. "Really?"

He felt something coil up and scream in pain in his stomach. He clutched at it. "No, she probably doesn't, does she." He bent over, trying to breathe. What had he done?

"You're not going to be going anywhere," Montreux said behind them.

Alistair straightened and turned to find the camp surrounded by Orlesian Guardsmen. Then he saw Mira and his gut twisted even worse. Her beautiful blond hair lifted lightly in the breeze, pouring down her back like a fountain of honey.

And, he realized with a sinking heart, her face was blotchy from crying and there were shackles at her wrists. She was a prisoner.

"You can't take a Noblewoman against her will," Wynne said to Montreux.

"She's no Noblewoman, she's a mage. In our culture, she would get to keep that status. But in yours, being a mage makes her Nobility meaningless." He crossed his arms, smug and certain in his statement.

"She's the sister of the Queen, I doubt the Queen will stand for it when she finds out," Wynne told him boldly.

"What?" Alistair almost shouted. He looked at Mira, loathing and rage filling him. "You're a Mac Tir?" His rage at the betrayal by both Loghain and Anora filled him. He suddenly wanted to pounce on her and beat her senseless. A Mac Tir of all things!


	19. Part 17

**Part 17:**

"Yes," she told him. "But what difference does it make? Just as Montreux said, it's meaningless. I'm a mage, and I'll never be anything more than that, except for being a Warden as well."

He looked furious. He looked hateful and enraged. She shivered in the chains that bound her. She was helpless, her magic suppressed and her body hampered by the chains.

He lunged towards her suddenly, sword in hand. "You bitch! You never once thought to tell me that you're the daughter of my worst enemy?"

Montreux slammed a fist into the back of Alistair's head, and several men moved forward, bows drawn, nocked, and ready. "Mind your manners, oaf," Montreux told him. "That's my woman you're talking to, and you had better learn your place—and quickly."

Mira looked at him, "I thought you said you wanted me to come to you willingly." An aching terror lay in her breast like a panicked bird.

"I never said that was the only way I'd take you, though," he told her. "And as far as the Queen goes, well…she wants you dead. She wants him dead, too… but I think he'll be more use to me alive. Leverage, you know… if she doesn't learn to cooperate, we'll depose her."

Then he turned and gestured to his men. "Chain and cage them."

The others were swiftly chained and thrown into the cages, which allowed only for them to sit. The wagon was turned and their journey resumed.

Montreux walked beside her behind the wagon. "When we get home, we'll have your hair fixed. It's unfashionably long and needs to be styled." He reached out to touch it, and she jerked away.

He grabbed her hair and pulled her back to him, twisting cruelly. "You'll learn to obey. Willingly, or the hard way, it matters naught to me." He released her and pushed her away, causing her to stumble slightly.

"Stop!" he commanded, striding towards the wagon. "Get the Warden out, chain him to the wagon."

When Alistair was chained to the wagon, his chestplate and the tunic under it removed, Montreux picked up a whip.

"Come here," he told Mira. She came to him, anger burning in her. "Kneel at my feet."

She hated him. But she wasn't stupid, she knew what the point was. If she didn't, he would beat Alistair. She didn't need to hear the first crack of the whip to try to stop it, the thought alone making hear heart ache.

Furious, hating him with her whole being, she knelt.

The whip slashed through the air, cracking across flesh and making Alistair grunt.

"Get up," Montreux barked at her. She scrambled to obey.

"Kneel again, without the attitude," he told her, his voice cold and hard.

She knelt, and he stood over her. She could see blood welling on Alistair's back from where she knelt.

"Pull your bodice down."

"But—here? Now?" she protested, unthinking.

The whip cracked, once, then twice, drawing another pained grunt. Her fingers fumbled quickly for the laces at the front of the ornate dress. A moment ticked by as she tried, and the whip cracked again.

"Every minute you delay, he gets another lash," the brutal Chevalier told her calmly.

Many of the soldiers looked away, and she felt somehow even more burned and humiliated by their pity and discomfort. It was almost more painful than the ones leering and obviously impatient for a look.

There was one more slash of the whip before her bodice finally came down. She sat with the bodice down, only the small corset holding her breasts covering her.

"That's enough," he told her when she reached for it. "Do you understand your position here now? Do you understand the results of your actions, or inactions, when I command you?"

"Yes," she answered softly.

"I can't hear you," he scolded her.

"Yes," she said, more loudly this time.

"Good. Because next time it will be the old one," he told her, before waving the men over to throw Alistair back into his cage, without replacing his shirt or breastplate.


	20. Part 18

**Part 18:**

Agony burned through him with every jolt of the wagon. His back was on fire, pain ripping through him in waves. None of them had poultices, and Wynne couldn't cast. So he suffered in silence, fighting his feelings while he fought the guilt that burned in him.

"I should have stopped him in the beginning," he finally ground out between clasped teeth.

"Whatever for?" Wynne asked. "She's just a Mac Tir." The contempt in her voice scathed him.

"Blood will tell," he told her. "Just look at Anora."

"No, it won't. Just look at you. You're not fit to be a King or a Hero. You're just a drunk. And a mean drunk, at that," she told him, and looked away. "I once heard you tell the Warden that you hadn't mentioned your royal blood because you wanted him to be your friend just for who you really are, and not for whom your father is. I guess it's good enough for you, but not for Mira."

"That's not fair," Alistair snarled at her. "It's different."

"How is it different?"

"I wasn't being sneaky or deceitful," he declared.

"Neither was she. It doesn't matter who she is, she's a Mage, and a Warden."

"And yet a Warden is King," Alistair snarled back.

"Do you hear yourself? All the excuses you used to run away and not fight for the throne, and now suddenly they don't apply when it comes to someone else?" She burned him with a single scathing look. "You're a hypocrite, Alistair."

"I hate you," he told her, and this time, he meant it.

"I never would have guessed from the kind and courteous manner in which you've been treating me," she told him.

He dipped his head in defeat and cried. He managed to cry silently, but he couldn't fight back the tears. He was hurting everyone that he loved. He was a monster. He was everything he never wanted to be, everything he swore he never would be.

They stopped at noon, and he was removed from the cage, a tunic and his breastplate slapped onto his body with an excess of roughness. He was reshackled and thrown back in. The tunic chafed and burned, now that he wasn't numbed by cold.

None of it compared to the ache in his heart as he watched Mira walking along. She looked as miserable as he felt.


	21. Part 19

**Part 19:**

They traveled for another two days, the others cramped into the small cages, unable to stretch or rise. Knowing they had to be certainly miserable, Mira bore her own suffering in silence.

The constant drag of the chains, though they were not heavy, made her shoulder and her arms ache. The shackles rubbed the bare skin raw until every step she took burned them and screamed through her body.

But she walked on without complaint. Her mage training helped her to fight off the worst of it, though it was her mind that was the hardest to stop…

First she would be in the tent with Alistair. Sitting beside him in ignorance of what was to come. His hand would be on her head, warm and comforting. The memory of his skin as she touched his heart to tell him that it was he who mattered, not "the Wardens." would haunt her…

Then inevitably her mind would turn to the sound of the whip hitting his back. How he must hate her now! His fate sat in her hands, and she had gotten him viciously whipped by not being fast enough, not willing enough, not courageous enough.

She fought dawning despair, not understanding why he hated her so before that. So she was a Mac Tir, so what?

It mattered to no one but him. Only him. And the Queen, she supposed. Both of them wanted to kill her for it, when it was the least important part of her life.

Now he had even more reason to want to kill her, though. Now he was being whipped when she didn't act fast enough. The others would soon join him, as the Chevalier had no scruples at all in whom he tortured.

Soon they would all hate her.

Defeat welled up in her, and she had to remind herself that self-pity was the bane of a sane mind. She had to fight and be strong and save them, even if they hated her. It was her fault they were in this mess, and so she would be strong and get them out of it.

The Chevalier broke into her thoughts a few hours later. "You will come to love me, you know. You'll forget about him, and wonder why you ever even thought of such a weak, pathetic man in such a way."

"I will never love you," she spat at him. "You're a monster!"

He snarled at her and grabbed her. Dragging her over to the wagon, he shoved her at two guards, who grabbed her arms. She stood serenely between them as Wynne was dragged from the cage, unable to stand from cramped muscles.

She was shackled to the wagon, her robe cut from her back. Entering a near-trance state, Mira didn't even flinch as the first lash landed.

"You will love me," he told her. "Do not continue to defy me."

Mira did her best imitation of a fake crying. He stopped and looked at her, then set the whip down again. Mira ducked her head and looked at the whip marks out the corner of her eyes, trying to look eager as she pretended to weep.

She pretended to catch him looking and looked down at the ground, sobbing more loudly.

Montreux walked over to her and jerked her head up by the hair. Disgusted, he let go, pushing it away from him as he did so.

"No tears," he said. "I'll have to keep in mind what a horrible actress you are when you're tired." He gestured at the men who had pulled Wynne out to put her back.

He walked back over to her and hit her full in the face. She gasped and jerked, then let the tears for Wynne come.

"I don't know what to think," he told her. But it's clear you don't care about her. Don't tell me, she boss you around one too many times?"

She looked away and he laughed. "You're not so meek, after all, are you. Well, you will be, Mira. You will be."


	22. Part 20

**Part 20:**

Alistair felt it when Montreux's hand met Mira's unprotected face almost more than he'd felt it when he'd been lashed. His body jerked uncontrollably, and he wanted nothing more than to destroy the Chevalier.

But then she betrayed them again. Wynne was whipped. Once, twice, the lash fell, and Alistair clung to his cage in fury. He had to stop this!

He couldn't. He was trapped.

And to spit in the face of his regret, Mira betrayed them yet again. She completely faked her upset at Wynne's whipping. How could anyone be so unfeeling! 'No tears,' Montreux had said. It settled into the pit of his stomach, and he felt bile rise.

He was going to vomit. How had he ever been taken in by her?

He was distracted then by the conversation taking place in whispers between Leliana and Wynne.

"I don't know how she did it, but Maker bless her. Two strokes and I thought I was going to die," Wynne whispered in a low, pained voice.

"She has amazing strength," Leliana whispered back. "I think everything will be okay. She will help us when the time is right."

"If we live that long," muttered Zevran from his cage.

"Amazing strength?" Alistair hissed. "She almost laughed while Wynne got whipped. She was totally faking her crying, and you say Maker bless her?"

"Are you this stupid, Templar?" Zevran asked in a low, cold voice. "If she cared about Wynne, he would only continue to torture her. But with her supposed 'bad acting,' she has convinced him of just that—that she almost wanted to laugh. Now he won't bother Wynne anymore, who can least handle such a thing of all of us."

Four faces stared at him as if he were some kind of Darkspawn.

"How far the mighty 'ave fallen," Oghren said. Then he turned his back on Alistair. "I used ta think ya was a good man, Templar. But ye just turned mean when ya started drinkin' and ye ain't been able ta find yer way back."

The others all turned away from him as well, and Alistair sat alone in the midst of them, lost and confused. Was he wrong? She was a Mac Tir, and they were all traitors!

He turned to look at her, trudging along in the dirt, the fancy dress dragging behind her and her chains clattering. He laid his head against the bars, staring at the cascading hair.

He didn't know what to think of it all. He didn't know what to think of her. He wanted to go back in time when the most complicated question he had about her was whether she really, for surely, cared for him.

The cart jerked in a pothole and he clung to the bars, gritting his teeth as the lashes on his back made him cringe. He held his peace though, knowing that it was worse for Wynne.

He wouldn't drown in self-pity when she was hurting even worse.


	23. Part 21

**Part 21:**

Clouds had rolled in over night. Their fat bellies reached down towards the ground, squatting toads covering the sky in a massive tumult. Thunder rumbled and lightning glowed and flashed in the fat, threatening clouds.

Rain whipped them, leaving all of them cold and miserable again, despite having left the higher altitudes of the snowy peaks behind. The sky seemed to have turned against them, sheeting them with suffering.

"We're nearly home," Montreux told Mira. He gestured expansively, and she looked up to see an estate that could be called nothing less than a castle. It spawned walls that sprawled grotesquely across the land like snakes that wormed out from it in obscene trails.

The squatting clouds covered the peaks of the towers, crouching over the castle like some demented predator, crackling with lightning and booming with distant thunder. The castle perched on the rise of a hill, a dark blot menacing the small town beside it.

The home reflected the man. The weather reflected her life.

A few long, interminable days ago, she'd been falling in love. Now she was just hoping to survive long enough to save those she'd come to care about. The family she'd never had, and wouldn't get to keep.

They trudged down and back up until they entered the castle's gates. The wagon was driven away from her, and she knew that they would be put into the dungeon.

She was taken into the castle through a side entrance, and led to a room. Then a mage came in, stinking of evil and rife with coldness. He placed a sparkling, elegant choker on her neck, clasping it with an audible click.

Then he left, and two women came in. They quietly removed her clothing and then left. A bath was poured for her, and clothes laid out. Then the women were led away, and the two guards turned to follow.

Naked or not, now was her chance! She began to cast a glyph and instantly her neck felt like it was on fire. She choked and tried to cry out, falling and writhing. When she recovered, it was only moments later, and she lay cold and still on the floor.

The choker suppressed her magic. But she also realized that it did more than that. Her skin felt as if it were crawling with some kind of insect. But there was clearly nothing there. Yet a deep paranoia started to build in her.

She bathed quickly, and put on the new clothes, the shackles gone from her aching wrists.

A new shackle around her neck.


	24. Part 22

_I just wanted to take a moment to tell those who have commented, and those who have favorited, how much I truly appreciate it. It is so encouraging and helpful to be told that people are interested and reading. I can't tell you enough how I appreciate you and how grateful I am for your comments. When they are made by registered members, I try to make a point to respond to each one of them. That you appreciate it enough to take your time to even post a little something, means a great deal to me. _

_Thank you!_

**Part 22:**

They were dragged out of the cages with no regard for the fact that their limbs were stiff and sore from not being stretched. They were dropped into cells, the men in one, the women in the other.

Then they were left alone, though Alistair saw two guards standing outside the door that led into the hallway of the cells they were in.

Silence fell, as it had for the length of the ride there.

"What are they going to do with us?" Alistair asked finally. He was hungry, cold, and only just beginning to gain some sense of his legs. Unfortunately. They burned like cold fury as the blood pumped back into them and he gritted his teeth as he groaned through the pain.

The others, except Oghren, who had been able to at least straighten his, also groaned or hissed in pain as circulation was restored.

"'E'll prolly see what use we is, afore he kills us. Iff'n we're not useful. 'E's gonna keep you, least for a while. He thinks ya got some political use fer 'im. If ya don't prove useful that way, 'e'll kill you, too." Oghren's assessment was simple and straight forward.

Not, however, very comforting.

Some time later, they heard voices outside, and recognized Montreux's. They each strained to hear what was said, but even keen elvish ears couldn't make it out.

Alistair paced. "Will they at least feed us?" he hadn't eaten since the evening meal the day before, and his Warden's appetite was practically raging through him. He could almost eat Oghren.

He found himself eyeing the shorter man and turned away, smacking himself upside the head. What was he thinking!

"It's a wonder they didn't just throw us in the well as soon as we got here," he said.

"Well, I'm certain that a use can be found for me. I am, after all, an Antivan Crow. I think the rest of you may be in serious trouble, though," Zevran told them.

Alistair wanted to hit him.

So instead, he paced. Until even that got boring and exhausting, then he sat down and fiddled with the links of the chain that still bound him. He would have wondered why he was still chained while the others weren't, but it didn't matter.

Near evening time, he was dragged from the cell, multiple archers standing in the hallway in case any of them tried anything. It seemed that, at minimum, the Chevalier had a great deal of faith in their fighting prowess.

Alistair was chained in the third cell with the door left open. The guards left him, and then there was silence once more. He stood with his legs spread and his arms pulled out to the side and up, in tunic and breeches. His armor had been taken, and now nothing protected him from the cold of the stone wall against his back.


	25. Part 23

**Part 23:**

"Please, you must not resist," the pretty young woman told her. "Please! It will go very badly for you!"

Mira couldn't bring herself to let them cut her hair. She was fighting tooth, claw, and nail. It shouldn't have mattered. Intellectually, she knew this. It wasn't really that important.

Except, it was. It was the last connection she had to a mother she barely remembered. "One hundred strokes each night before bed. One hundred strokes each morning before breakfast. Your hair will grow long and beautiful."

She had chanted it every day to Mira when she was little, because Mira wanted long hair. Forever. Such was the mind of a child. And her mother had been patient with her about it, caring for her hair no matter how difficult she was about it.

When brought to the circle, she had fought them every inch of the way, until the First Enchanter had told them to leave it, and just put it up. Then one of the kind women there had helped her.

It was personal. It was a part of her. It was emotional for her. She couldn't give it up.

Finally, with a sigh, the shy young hairdresser left the room. The guards went with her, spitting venomous looks at Mira.

Still she resisted, her arms wrapped around herself in terror and a desperate need for protection.

When Chevalier Montreux entered the room, Mira knew she was in horrible trouble. He looked angrier than the thundering sky overhead. He came in, and asked her, politely, in the coldest voice she'd ever heard, "Won't you change your mind?"

Mutely, she shook her head.

He grasped her by the hair and began to drag her, stumbling and trying to keep her feet, behind him. They went down hallways, with guards either leering or trying hard not to see. They stumbled down stairs, she being jerked back upright by his grip in her hair if she stumbled.

Then they entered the dungeon. It was damp and cold, and Mira shivered as much from fear as from cold.

She was thrown into the hands of two guards, and dragged behind Montreux into a hallway. Her companions were all there, and they stood under guard, a large number of archers with arrows pointed at them and ready.

Montreux asked her calmly, one more time. "Do you still not care to change your mind?"

She trembled, terrified. But she couldn't bring herself to say 'yes.'

Montreux told her. "You'll never be able to convince me that you don't care about him—for now." Then he walked into the cell with Alistair, pulled on mail gloves, and began to beat him.

Mira finally found her voice, and screamed. "No! Stop it! I'll do it! Just stop it!"

But he didn't stop. He beat Alistair with open, unabashed fury. She cried and pleaded, promised to do anything. But the blows continued to land, and she heard bones crack and break.

When he was done, the soldiers let go of her, and she collapsed at their feet. Montreux then kicked her in the ribs. Once, twice, and three times. This time, her own ribs cracked, and burning fire lanced through her as she tried to breathe.

"Bring her," he told the others, throwing the hair that had fallen across his face from his exertion back into position. Flexing and rolling his shoulders, he told one of the guards, "Kill them all."

The guard saluted, a gauntlet across his chest and a lowered head.

Mira was dragged from the room, agony shooting through her. She heard the loosing of arrows and screamed, a prolonged, agonized shriek that sang through the castle and seeped into the hearts of men and women alike.

Never had he been this brutal before, the servants whispered and the guardsmen thought.


	26. Part 24

_My sincere thanks to 'anonymous' who posted the compliment about my ability to express characters and emotions. As well as to the continued support and comments from those registered, as well. I really do appreciate it, thank you so much. It's encouraging and motivating to know that people are waiting for more updates. A very symbiotic relationship, this between writer and reader. :)_

_I am grateful to each of you who take your time to tell me that my own time is not wasted in writing and posting this story._

**Part 24:**

Mira lay on the bed where she'd been dropped, not ungentely, by the two guards who'd carried her back to her room.

The collar continued to plague her with paranoia and the crawling sensation, making her scratch at herself and driving her to get up, stumbling around the room in search of… something. Anything to relieve the misery and the rising tide of fear.

She turned back again to her mage training, trying to enter a state of trance. The collar drove her constantly, though, and she couldn't concentrate or focus. It was almost as if it were whispering, whispering, whispering in her mind…

The crawling sensation became something else. It was trails of fire that danced over her skin, burrowing into her ribs. She batted at herself, shrieking as the pain flared.

Cold. It was so cold. The castle was trying to kill her by freezing her to death. The walls moved, billowing in deep breaths.

"She's too powerful. It's going to be a matter of hours, not weeks."

"Can't you do anything?"

"The stronger the mage is, the faster the collar drives him or her to madness. The more it takes to suppress them, the stronger the hallucinatory effect."

"Find another way. She's no good to me like this."

"You should tell her the others are alive. It was a much more powerful deterrent for her than this is."

"Don't tell me what to do. You work for me, I don't work for you. And if you forget it—"

"How could I?"

The fire in the hearth was talking to the chair. What a strange conversation. She laughed.

"She's already mad."

"I could take it off."

"She would still be powerful, but then she would be sane."

The chair sighed at the fire. The fire snarled.

Alistair. She thought of him again. She would have to tell him about the fire talking to the chair. The fire is the boss. She giggled uncontrollably.

But no. She couldn't tell him. Alistair was dead. He was in the Fade. She should go to the Fade and find him. She should, she really should.

"Should I go to him?" she asked the fire. It was silent, so she asked the chair. The chair wobbled and spun, but said nothing.

She was on her own, then.


	27. Part 25

**Part 25:**

It was quiet. The sound of the fire crackling was the loudest thing in the room. She was lucid and in terrible pain. Then it all shifted, and she was walking in the Fade. Well, she was standing in an area of the Fade that looked just like the Chevalier's castle, really.

She wandered the halls, lost and unsure. She looked at people, recreated here in surprisingly perfect detail. They didn't notice her, as if she didn't even exist.

Then she thought of it. It was a brilliant thought, really. Perhaps in the Fade, the others would still be alive. She wondered if she could find her way to their cells, and then she was there.

"Mira?" Wynne's voice was shocked. "How are you doing this?"

The others were there. All of them. Even Alistair had shown up in her Fade Dream. She hovered in front of him. She didn't speak to the Wynne-demon. It would doubtless just ensnare her in some way.

"Mira?" Wynne said again, and the others looked at her in disbelief as if she'd gone crazy.

Oh, this demon was clever. Very clever. Mira realized immediately that it was the demon who lived in the collar and suppressed her magic. The blood mage had trapped it there, and it was feeding off of her magic.

And pretending to be her friend.

"I know what you are," she told the Wynne-demon. "I will not fall for your traps and snares."

"Mira," the Wynne-demon told her, pretending to be excited and hopeful. "We're going to get out of here. We're alive."

"Of course you're alive here," Mira told her. "This is the Fade. Everyone's alive here—just not over there." And she laughed. It was rather absurd, when one thought of it.

"Mira, hang in there. We're coming for you, I swear it. Alistair, say something! Help her. She's confused," the Wynne-thing said sharply to the Alistair-thing.

"What could I say that she would believe?" the Alistair-demon asked.

"Speak from your heart, Alistair," the Wynne-demon-thing told him.

She laughed, "Because a demon would not know my heart?"

"A demon would know your heart, Mira, but would it know his?"

Mira shrugged. "I know his heart. And no doubt he will say what I wish him to say, and not what he really thinks. I know he hates me, and I know he will say he doesn't."

"There's no way to help you know we're real and alive, is there?" the Wynne-thing was sad. Poor demon. What a shame. Really.

Mira shrugged. "I want to believe you're real and alive. So no, there's no way to convince me."

"This isn't the Fade, Mira. You're spirit-walking. I don't know how you're doing it without the support of other mages, but it's real, and it's what you're doing now."

Mira shook her head. "Too much pain, can't stay in my body anymore. Can feel it hurting still. I'm going mad."

She sat down on the bench beside Alistair, and leaned her head on his shoulder. He didn't react. He didn't react at all.

She looked at the Wynne-thing. "I couldn't save them. I couldn't save them, and I condemned them to death by disobeying. No matter what I did or tried to save them, it all failed. It all went wrong somehow."

The Wynne-thing was convincing. It started to cry. It was sad to see Wynne cry, even if she was just a Wynne-demon-thing.

"My mother used to brush my hair. I couldn't bring myself to let him cut it. So he killed them all." She looked at the Wynne-thing. "Because of my hair, he killed all of you."

The Wynne-thing shook her head. "Because you couldn't betray the memory of your mother, Mira. It's his fault. He made you choose between us and the memory of your mother. It wasn't fair."

Mira hadn't thought of it that way. Strangely comforting, for a demon. But then, that was how they worked, right?


	28. Part 26

**Part 26:**

Alistair dragged himself to consciousness through sheer effort. His entire body ached, not just the multiple breaks and fractures he knew he was suffering from. Breathing came only with difficulty, and he almost cried out in pain as he tried to do it a bit too deeply.

"Be still," he was commanded, and he looked up through the slits that were his new, swollen eyelids to find Oghren staring down at him.

"Wha—" he asked, afraid of the answer.

"I don't know, they dragged her away and shot arrows into the walls. Some are still sticking there," Wynne's voice said from the other cell. "I think they wanted her to think we were dead. Less hope and less chance she'll come rescue us. Not that I think she'd get much chance to anyway."

"Ungh," he said, wanting to ask another question, but unable to speak, groping for breath as the gasping created even greater pain.

"Be still," she admonished him. "I healed you as much as I could. They've refreshed the spell on my shackles and put them back on, though. They let me save you, but I didn't have enough power to do more than that. You're going to be in a lot of pain, I'm sorry."

He passed out again and floated in and out of awareness for the next couple of hours. Each time, he felt better, until he was able to sit up with great difficulty and pain—even with the help of Zevran and Oghren.

"What are we going to do?" he asked. No one answered.

Finally, sighing, he said, "No one has any ideas?"

"Leliana, can you truly convince the guard to do what you want him to do?" he finally asked.

"No, those are just tales. Although, I could probably use a rather different sort of charm," she said.

"Zevran. Can you sneak up behind him if she can get him against the bars, and pick the keys from him?"

"Oh, certainly. Though I could just seduce him and take the keys, myself, couldn't I?"

"What? No. He doesn't seem to be that kind of Guard," Alistair told the rogue, ignoring his moue of disappointment.

"But you know, it could fail. I'm pretty sneaky, but he does expect to be able to see me all the time, so it's an unusual circumstance."

"Well, as long as she keeps him facing the other way, it should be okay," Alistair told him.

"What're ya gonna do then, though? Ya thought that far yet, ya dunderheaded Bronto?" Oghren appeared to be suffering a bout of temper brought on by his beard flask finally running dry.

Wynne's hand lifted suddenly, and she waved them to silence.

"Mira?" Wynne's voice was shocked. "How are you doing this?"

Alistair considered strongly in that moment, the possibility that Wynne had finally gone senile.


	29. Part 27

**Part 27:**

"Mira?" Wynne said again.

Alistair stared at her. She was seeing things. She ignored them all, watching an invisible nothing walk towards him. She then stared at the wall beside him and talked to it like it was real. Or, more precisely, like it was really Mira, and not a wall a'tall.

"Mira," she said to the wall, "we're going to get out of here. We're alive."

An uncomfortable feeling ran through Alistair then. Was she really seeing Mira's spirit? Did that mean Mira was dead? Was she some kind of apparition, who only Wynne could see, since she was a mage?

Mages could see into the Fade, right?

"Mira, hang in there. We're coming for you, I swear it. Alistair, say something! Help her. She's confused."

She wasn't the only one.

"What could I say that she would believe?" he asked her, despair in his heart. If he said he loved her, she'd never believe him. Even though he did. He loved her so much it was tearing him apart to think of her spirit wandering and lost in the Fade while her body lay somewhere in the castle—

"Speak from your heart, Alistair," Wynne said, her voice pleading with him to say something, anything.

Her eyes turned again to the wall. She looked infinitely sad, as if she were losing a dear friend… they were all losing their friend, weren't they? He tried to think of something to say to her. He tried to imagine what she might be thinking as she sat there.

"A demon would know your heart, Mira, but would it know his?"

She thought he was a demon? Why would she think that?

"There's no way to help you know we're real and alive, is there?" Wynne sounded pitiful, despairing. When had she gotten so very old? She looked suddenly tired and worn out, as if she felt she was personally failing Mira by not being able to convince her.

"This isn't the Fade, Mira. You're spirit-walking. I don't know how you're doing it without the support of other mages, but it's real, and it's what you're doing now."

Well, Mira might not be convinced, but Alistair was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, Wynne wasn't going senile, after all.

Something Mira said made Wynne cry. He had never seen Wynne cry.

The Wynne-thing shook her head. "Because you couldn't betray the memory of your mother, Mira. It's his fault. He made you choose between us and the memory of your mother. It wasn't fair."

Why couldn't he say something brilliant like that?


	30. Part 28

_Wow, thanks so much! Very encouraging to come home to see your comments. I really, really enjoy reading them, and can't thank you enough for posting them to me!_

_I'm glad people are finding it to be an unusual and interesting story. And I'm grateful to hear people's views on the characterization, as well. So thanks again!_

**Part 28: **

The Castle was alive. She could sense it all around her. It throbbed with a slow, steady boom, like a heartbeat.

It was warning her. He was coming. She should go back, quickly.

"He's coming," she said, and wondered how to get back to her body.

The world whirled and she was there. He was crossing the room, with two guards. He had a knife in his hand.

He was going to kill her. She was ready. She would go back to the Fade. She would find the others. She would be free.

The ceiling warned her. The stones of the castle cried out to her.

Pain wracked her as he stepped towards her and grasped her hair. She lashed out at him, and he hit her. She kicked, and she screamed, a scream of pure pain. Her battered body wanted rest, it wanted healing. It begged, in words she could understand.

And she told it that her friends died for that hair. She would never give it up.

So the body fought. It raked and clawed. The knife sank into her belly, and it cried out in agony. But the body felt her terror. It lived her pain.

It fought. It bled. It loved her and so it tried anyway, as it fought, and bled, and burned with pain.

The Chevalier roared with fury. He waved at the two guardsmen, who protested, but grasped her and held her still. He yanked her dress from her back, the material shredding and tearing with difficulty and pain.

It wept for its lost beauty, and Mira knew she was insane.

The first sting of the whip tore through her with the force of an arcane explosion. It stole her breath and left her sobbing. She turned within in and cried out in suffering, pain, and terror.

She cried for the ancestral spirits of the beasts, and heard no answer. She was alone in her mind, shrieking and screaming as the lash struck again, and again, and again.

She begged, she searched. She found nothing. She heard nothing. And she despaired in the loneliness of her own mind.

But the spirit of the Dire Bear heard her. The spirit of the Dire Bear rose up and went in search of her.

It found a barrier in its way. She was calling, she was terrified, and she was blocked from him. He knew a blind fury then that overcame everything in his awareness.

He searched, tearing, sniffing, roaring. He sought a way into her mind. A passage, a doorway, an opening. His search tore through her neural pathways, sending pain and confusing messages to her body.

Yet he could not leave her. He felt her distress, her terror, and her pain. He felt rage such as he had never known.

And then he found it. A small break in the demon's control over her. The collar wasn't perfect, the demon's control was not complete.

With fury and unspeakable power, he tore the hole wide open and slammed through it.


	31. Part 29

_Please note that this segment contains descriptions of graphic violence._

**Part 29:**

The two guards were already upset by the situation when the woman between them began to snarl in a most inhuman fashion. Her body went rigid, and they looked at each other in sheer terror as her eyes rolled back in her head and the unholy sounds intensified.

Even Montreux stopped and stared at her, as the pair dropped her arms and stepped away in terrified fascination. The choker glowed, colored light flashing along it almost as if it were alive with electricity.

The growling of some primal sort of creature grew louder and louder, suddenly uniting with a terrifying, joyful laughter.

Then all the hordes of the Darkspawn seemed to break loose from the Fade, into the room. Where a helpless, terrified, trapped woman had knelt stood a Dire Bear. He was mottled, a dark brown with black markings.

He turned toward the first guard, and roared in unleavened fury. Faster than the man could react, the massive beast lunged at him, and plate armor screamed in protest as it was bent between the massive jaws.

The creature then grabbed and arm and ripped it entirely off of the man's body, armor and all. It savaged the arm for a moment, before turning and taking the man's head off as well.

Then it turned, catching the sound of running feet. It caught up with the other guard well before he made it to the door. That guard was similarly dismembered, though the bear savaged him even worse than the first.

Montreux had time to reach the door and drop the massive beam across the front of the door before a ton of bear slammed into it. The beam splintered and groaned, but held. He leaned against it, panting.

Inside the room, the bear went berserk. It attacked the chair, leveling it into splinters within moments.

The bed then knew the savagery of the bear's rage. It crashed and broke, pinning the bear for no more than a moment before it broke free and unleashed a vicious attack on it.

Furniture broke. Pottery crashed.

But it was worse than that. The entire castle rumbled, as if in answer to the bear's fury. The very stones seemed to echo its roars, and every time that something crashed inside the room, the castle boomed with a sympathetic detonation.

"Vanderhiln!" Montreux practically screamed, going in search of his blood mage.

This was not supposed to happen!


	32. Part 30

**Part 30:**

She had nearly gotten the guard into the third cell when the commotion started. He pushed her inside and told her, "Stay here, beautiful. I'll be back to continue this, I promise." He leered at Leliana before he ran back out into the hallway.

She pouted at him, but the truth was, she wondered what was going on as well.

"Thunderhumper!" Oghren swore.

"Not to worry," Leliana said. "Maker forgive me." She held up the jangling keyring.

"Ye got it!"

"I'm a decent pickpocket myself, you know," she replied. "I was going to hand them off to Zevran, but…"

She pointed upwards, where the strange sounds were still echoing through the castle. It was quiet and distant from down there, but it sounded almost as if the castle was under attack.

"We need our weapons," Alistair pointed out as Leliana opened the doors of the other two cells. She released Wynne's shackles, and Wynne immediately emptied her power reserves to heal her own wrists, and the worst of Alistair's injuries.

Zevran was already out the half-open door, sneaking down the corridor. The rest crowded out the door and waited.

"Always, there is the waiting," Wynne said when Oghren started scratching at himself.

He grunted at her. "Waitin's easier with an ale 'er two," he told her.

Then Zevran was there, nearly materializing from thin air as he dropped the magic that supported his ability to move stealthily.

They rushed out into the hallway, surprising the first two guards. They were dead almost before they knew what hit them.

"Find the front gates if you can, and find the safest route to them for us, please, Zevran." Alistair thought a moment. "Can you go with him, Leliana?"

The pair nodded.

Then Alistair, Wynne, and Oghren were working their way through the hallways, surprisingly crowded with guards.

"I says we follow the sounds of fightin'," Oghren said. "I'm thinkin' that she'll be in it somehow, even if she ain't responsible."


	33. Part 31

**Part 31:**

The sounds of carnage grew as they fought. Almost as if the castle itself were trembling with rage. They fought, slashing and struggling, until suddenly, in the midst of a battle, the sounds ceased.

The sudden quiet—comparatively speaking—filled Alistair with a deep foreboding. As the guard fighting him turned back towards him, he slashed right though the man's helm and split him open.

They rushed down the hallway, looking into doorways and down hallways.

At first, they rushed past the doorway with the heavy wooden beam blocking it.

"Wait," Alistair said. "Why would you lock a door from the outside?" 

"Mira!" they all said at the same time, and turned to run back, Wynne picking up the skirt of her robe as she ran.

They stood outside the door, staring at it. It was caved slightly outwards, the massive wooden beam splintered and cracked in the middle as if some mighty hand had struck it from the inside. The door itself was in a terrible state as well, something heavy and powerful had battered it from the other side.

Struggling, Alistair and Oghren finally managed to get the beam up and out of its cradle. It was difficult not only because the beam had been jerked free from the winch and chain that usually lifted it, but also because it was warped and rubbed roughly against the door as it was lifted.

Then they were in, pushing the door wide enough to enter the room.

Mira lay in the middle of it, motionless and in a pool of blood. Her face was pale, her hand stretched towards the door as if in supplication.

Alistair had never felt such fear in his life in that moment. He couldn't lose her. He just couldn't…

"Wynne?" he cried desperately.

Wynne knelt beside her. "She's alive. But I think she's dying." She stood up and tried to cast a healing spell on Mira. The magic seemed almost to flow into the beautiful choker Mira wore, but it had no effect on her otherwise.

The door was abruptly wrenched all the way open, and in marched some twelve or so men, Leliana and Zevran obviously their captives.

"Ah, there you are. We've been looking for you," the leader announced, pulling his helm off. "Allow me to introduce myself. Chevalier Dupont Fontaine, at your service." He bowed, a sweeping, grand gesture.

"Great. Just what we needed," Alistair said aloud, "more Orlesian Asses."


	34. Part 32

**Part 32:**

Rather than the anger he expected, Fontaine laughed.

"I'd say the same, but I think we need more Wardens, not less, eh?"

"Come along. Bring the woman." He waved them towards the door.

"Let us heal her first, please," Wynne appealed. "At least let me try a poultice, my heals do nothing for her." She looked at the Chevalier imploringly.

"No," he told her. "Her condition is terrible, but she can travel on a blanket carried between four of my men. If she is seen as she is right now, then the extent of Montreux's crimes cannot be denied. But if she is healed, her voice will be far weaker—no matter how well she can speak."

"Come," he said, motioning four of the other Chevaliers to lift her onto a blanket.

Alistair snarled at the fourth as he tried to pick up the last corner of the blanket that would carry her to… he knew not where. The man darted a look at Fontaine, who nodded for him to back off. He stepped away, looking daggers at Alistair as he did so.

Then they followed Fontaine out into the hallway, and through the castle.

"Here we are," Fontaine said, pushing the door open and bringing them into the large meeting room. "Put her down." He looked at Alistair, "You may stay with her, if you like."

Alistair nodded, grateful for the kindness—wherever it might lead in the end.

A side door opened, and a diminutive woman walked into the room, flanked by two more massive Chevaliers. The ancient woman was dwarfed by them, yet they clearly held her in high esteem.

"Adjudicator Benoit," Fontaine told them. "She is here to hear our charges against Montreux."

"Charges?" Leliana asked. "But none can bring charges against Chevaliers," she protested.

"Except our peers, Lady Bard," Fontaine told her. Then he winked at her, and she blushed.

"Ah, there he is now," Fontaine said as Montreux was led into the room, surrounded by six Chevaliers.


	35. Part 33

**Part 33:**

Behind Chevalier Montreux came his mage, Vanderhiln, shackled between the last pair of Chevaliers.

"Oh good, the group's all here. Let the raping and pillaging begin!" Alistair said over-brightly.

Wynne fixed him with a stern look, and he shrugged, "What? I meant him, not us."

"You want to rape the Chevalier? I wouldn't have thought you were so open-minded," Zevran said cheerfully, leering at Alistair.

"That wasn't what I meant!" Alistair told him, his voice rising at the end.

Adjudicator Benoit raised her hands for quiet, sitting calmly on the tall-backed chair that had been brought up for her use.

"Chevalier Fontaine, please state your charges, and the background behind them," Adjudicator Benoit told him.

"Yes, Honorable Adjudicator." He paced in front of her. "I was approached two days ago by a Guardsman, who informed me that Chevalier Montreux had taken a Noblewoman captive, and was brutally beating politically valuable prisoners."

"She's no noble—" Montreux argued, taking a deep breath to continue.

"Silence!" the tiny woman's voice cut into his tirade before it even began. Her voice was many times larger than she, echoing off of the stone walls with surprising authority. "You will not speak again until spoken to, or I will have you gagged and shackled."

He sank back and pouted, crossing his arms.

"Continue," she told Fontaine.

"I was already on my way to his castle when I found an elf woman walking towards Demarra. She was badly beaten. Although I know it's his right to beat his chattel, it is my right to treat her injuries, once he has dismissed her, as he had. She revealed that she had been beaten for being unable to convince the captured mage to allow her to cut off her hair."

"Indeed?" the white-haired woman's brow rose, and she shifted, her eyes straying coldly towards Montreux. "That's a bit peculiar, I should think. But do continue."

"With some further inquiry, I figure out that this was the Noblewoman the Guardsman had informed me of. That was when I sent for you, so that we could investigate this matter together."

The elderly woman nodded, then turned to Chevalier Montreux. "And what is your answer to these allegations?"

"She's not a Noblewoman," he sneered. "I am well within my rights here."

He said no more, and the Adjudicator turned to Wynne. "Is she your companion?"

"Yes, Adjudicator Benoit," Wynne told her. The elderly woman's eyes warmed—if only a shade or two—at the courteous response.

"And is she of Noble blood?"

"She is, Adjudicator," Wynne told her.

"And Montreux was aware of this, to your knowledge?"

"Yes. He was informed. However—" She was cut off as the formidable old woman held up a hand to silence her.

"Montreux? How do you answer this?"

"She's a mage. In Ferelden, all mages give up all claim and rights when they are taken into their circle."

"How admirable that you know Ferelden law, Chevalier Montreux. I find myself curious, though. Are we in Ferelden, then?"

He shifted for a moment, his eyes seeking allies amongst the Chevaliers. He found none, swallowed, and responded, "No, Adjudicator."

"Why, then, do you see fit to quote Ferelden's laws to me?"

"She is a citizen of Ferelden. By their own laws, she's no noble!" he protested.

"Shall I, then, take it upon myself to follow Ferelden's laws?" she asked him. "Or should I do so only when it suits me? Or only when dealing with Ferelden natives?"


	36. Part 34

**Part 34:**

"I will warn you, Chevalier Montreux, not to attempt to use semantics with me. I cannot believe that you truly thought you could use Ferelden's laws when it suited you in order to justify the taking of a Noblewoman. And I may be old, but I still have eyes. Even where she not a noblewoman, your treatment of this woman has gone well beyond standard chastisement.

"You are to be a symbol to the people. Your purpose is not only to protect them, but to show them what a noble heart and mind truly is. Within these principles, you are allowed to chastise your people—but not to brutalize them!

"In my station as Adjudicator, I have seen some terrible things. But this is the first time that I have seen any Orlesian use a subjugating collar. There are lines in life that you simply do not cross, Chevalier, and you have crossed them all in your treatment of this single woman."

She stood up and walked over towards Mira. "The worst legal punishment a grown man may endure is fifteen lashes of the cat-o-nine-tails whip. Every five lashes, he is to be healed.

"According to reports from servants outside her quarters while you beat her, you gave her no less than twenty-eight lashes. With no healing whatsoever. In fact, without the possibility of healing."

Looking down on Mira, she went on, "Seeing her here, with her back a bloody mass of raw meat, I find myself believing that they may had miscounted, and it could have been more—certainly not less. Her injuries are extensive, and she may not survive this at all."

Looking suddenly very tired, the elderly woman walked slowly back up to the dais and sank down into the high backed chair.

"You are guilty, Chevalier. I cannot doubt it. But I know not what to do with you."

Fontaine cleared his throat.

"Yes, Chevalier Fontaine?"

"Perhaps you will allow us to mete out his punishment, Adjudicator Benoit?" he asked with a slight bow.

"If it would suit you, then so be it."

"That's it? You're not even going to give me a chance to defend myself?" Montreux practically squealed.

"There is no defense against what you've done," she told him sternly.

"But she disobeyed! She was infuriating and insubordinate!" he protested.

"Shut him up," she barked into the room. "His vile temperament disgusts me."


	37. Part 35

**Part 35:**

"If we are to save her, we must remove that collar. You," she said, pointing at Vanderhiln, "you put it on her, you take it off."

"I didn't put it on her, Adjudicator," the mage said, practically fawning at her. "I know not how to remove such a collar, I'm sorry."

"Do you take me for a fool?" she asked him. "I can smell the blood mage stink on you from here. And no proper mage would work for that foul beast."

"He pays me very well," said the obsequious, groveling man.

"What collar?" Alistair whispered to Wynne. "What are they talking about?"

"There's nothing wrong with my hearing, young man," the elderly Adjudicator said. "It's a suppression collar. It looks pretty, but it's got some sort of demon bound to it. The demon will consume her magic."

"Oh dear Maker," Wynne cried. "Those are illegal! They're horrifically inhumane!"

"Like being locked into a tower is particularly pleasant," Alistair said.

"Well, it can be, if it's just you and a bunch of women," Zevran told him.

Leliana snickered and Oghren said, "Tis a nice thought, eh, Alistair?"

"Enough," barked the Adjudicator, her voice once more bouncing off the walls with reverberating authority.

"The collar is especially inhumane because no mage can survive or remain sane for long with a demon feeding off their magic and trying to access their minds despite their carefully crafted barriers. It's worse in its own way than becoming an abomination—for when they become abominations, they are pushed into the fade. In the case of the collar, they are simply dominated and subjugated. Witness to every evil the demon has ever performed—melded with it, as it were."

A shudder ran around the room.

"You will remove it," she told Vanderhiln.

"I will not," he said. "I cannot escape alive from this place, anyway, so why help you before you just kill me?" Then he was gone, and an abomination rose in his place. "I will simply kill you all instead."

Three minor rage demons and two major ones popped up into the room directly from the fade.

"More Darkspawn. They just seem to crop up everywhere, don't they?" Alistair said, grabbing his shield and weapon from the Chevalier who held them, slack-jawed with surprise.

The room was too small for effective fighting. At first, the Chevaliers jockeyed with him to kill the abomination, but then they seemed to decide that the companions could have him.

A group of them surrounded the Adjudicator, a bristling wall of swords and shields that pointed out, with her at the exalted center, like the heart of an especially deadly flower.


	38. Part 36

**Part 36:**

There was fighting all around her. She hard voices, and she sensed more demons. She felt it to the very depths of her being through the knowledge of the Dire Bear. She was surrounded by their taint. She was surrounded by their scent- a foul and wretched stench.

And she was helpless, lying on the cold stone ground. Fear rose in her, threatening to drown her. The stones cried out to her, and she clung to them, to this castle, this place that was alive and that was comforting her in her despair.

Then the Bear was there again. He filled her, he rose within her like he was a part of her.

He wrenched free of the demon that held her. He roared through her mind, tearing free.

Snarls and roars burst from her, startling the Chevaliers who crowded around her supine form.

Then they were stumbling backwards, out of her way, as the Dire Bear took over.

She warped and twisted and grew, the collar shifting with her, clinging to the worldly plane even as her own body was replaced by that of the Bear, pushed into the otherworld as it took her place.

Then she was roaring, roaring. She was powerful and mighty. She was invincible. Well, she felt that way, anyway.

She rose with him as the Bear stood, searching for the enemy. Towering some nine feet into the room, she could see clearly.

There it was. Abomination. The very word made the Bear's blood sing. He roared across the room and tore into it. With a powerful swipe that burned his paw like fire, he scraped a massive bloody trail across the abomination.

It retaliated, slashing burning fire across his fur and muzzle. An frenzied insanity took over then, and the Dire Bear tore and ripped and savaged as the Abomination turned back to Alistair at the ex Templar's shout.

The Bear's rage spilled over, and Mira found herself drowned in it. Fire and pain and fury were all she knew. She had never felt such rage, such fury, such anger before. She and the bear had been one before, but never this Great One. This ancient ancestor who was all teeth and claws and weight.

At last, the abomination was weakened, and the Dire Bear stood, lunging forward to tear the thing's head right off, his mouth filled with vile, sickening blood. As the thing died, the Bear bellowed, thrilling to the victory.


	39. Part 37

**Part 37:**

She was a bear.

She wasn't just a bear, Alistair noted. She was a big bear. No… she was a really, really huge bear. Massive. The biggest bear he'd ever seen.

And she was furious.

And… she was looking at him.

Standing up, towering over him, and looking at him like he was an especially tasty morsel of human meat.

Yeah. He was having a bad day. A really bad day.

"Talk to her!" Wynne hissed at him.

Again with the 'talk to her'? He still didn't know what to say! And she hardly looked to be willing to reason with him, anyway.

"Mira, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I judged you for being a Mac Tir—"

"Not like that! Don't remind her of the bad things! Remind her of the good things!" Leliana admonished him.

He swallowed and back away a bit… that bear was advancing on him rather menacingly…

"Mira," he said, wracking his brains. "I know it might sound strange, considering we haven't known each other for very long. But, I've come to… care for you… a great deal."

"Alistair!" Leliana prodded.

"What? I mean… she's a bear, for Maker's sake!"

"Pretend she's a beautiful woman," Zevran told him. "And you want to get her into bed and slide between her legs and—"

"Not… right…. Now!" Alistair said tersely. He really, really couldn't think about sliding between Mira's legs right now… oh Maker, what was he supposed to be doing?


	40. Part 38

**Part 38:**

The Bear advanced, and Mira felt its rage. It knew what he'd said to her. He felt the agony flaring through her as she saw this human. It saw him as the root of her pain, and it stalked towards him, still upright.

It was in front of him now. Her pain rose as she looked at him. He was dead. He wasn't supposed to be there. She had failed him.

Lost in the other dimension, she wailed.

The Bear roared, blowing hot breath and abomination blood into his face.

He was dead. He shouldn't be there. She couldn't think. Something was not right. Something didn't fit. She couldn't be in the Fade, but she had to be in the Fade or he wouldn't be there.

"Mira," he said, and she felt the bear gathering up to destroy the lie before them. "Don't leave me alone."

Love and sorrow welled into her. The Bear hesitated, drew back.

"Alistair!" it was a cry of despair, of hope… of infinite sorrow and loss.

The Bear retreated and Mira fell. She tumbled forward into Alistair's arms. Her body was alive with agony. Her back burned, and her stomach was the seat of a penetrating cold.

But he was there. She was in the Fade. She was dead. Thoughts flickered and plagued her.

She had no more strength left to resist. If she was to be consumed by a demon here in the Fade, then so be it. At least she would be with him.

"You're dead," she whispered to him. "And so am I now."

"If this was the fade, would I be so ugly and unshaven?" he asked her. She blinked at him, then reached up, weakly, to touch his face. He definitely had several days' growth of beard.

She laughed weakly. "You're never ugly," she said, just before she passed out from the pain of that laugh.


	41. Part 39

**Part 39:**

"Can you remove that collar?" Adjudicator Benoit asked Wynne.

Wynne shook her head. "It's blood magic. I wouldn't know where to begin to try."

"I'm sorry," the Adjudicator said, walking over to kneel with obvious difficulty and brush the hair away from Mira's forehead. Her eyes met Alistair's with a wealth of sympathy and sorrow in them. "She is going to die. With the collar on, not even poultices will work. They are augmented by magic, and…"

She trailed off sadly and then accepted the assistance of a young Chevalier in standing back up. She suddenly looked old and very tired.

"Wait," Leliana said as Alistair pulled Mira against him and stifled his tears against her neck.

"I think it can be removed. But it will take two of us."

"Do what you can," Adjudicator Benoit told her. "The situation is already fatal."

Leliana shook her head. "It's not that simple. If we make a mistake, if I stop singing, the demon in the collar could be released, or it could explode. I'm not sure, but Maker preserve us, it could be terrible."

"You must try," the sweet little old lady told her in a voice of steel.

"Zevran, you pick the lock while I sing to contain the demon's power," Leliana told him.

He nodded. "Easy. We'll be home in time for dinner," he joked.

She shook her head. "Don't be so sure."

Then she started to sing, a soft, haunting song that seemed somehow discordant and set everyone on edge.

Zevran studied the clasp, then pulled several tiny instruments out of his mouth. "I don't want to know where those came from," Alistair said, trying to stop the misery building inside him.

Zevran winked, but then began to fiddle with the lock.

Time ticked past. Chevaliers shifted, Alistair had to change his hold on Mira. Still, time passed, until finally, unable to stand it any longer, Oghren barked, "Zevran?"

"Shh!" Wynne hissed.

Zevran stopped to look at him for a second. "This a complex, miniscule lock. It's like making a woman scream your name every time she has an orgasm for the rest of her life. It can be done, but not quickly."

"Really?" Alistair asked, intrigued despite himself.

"Oh, definitely. There's this beautiful woman in Antiva whose husband still wants to kill me because—"

"Zevran, the lock!"

"Oh yes, sorry," the elf said, returning his attention to the clasp.

More tense moments passed, then suddenly Zevran said, "Done! Make way!"

When the Chevaliers had scrambled to make room, Zevran threw the collar and ducked.

Nothing happened. "Whew, well, that was easy," Leliana said, ceasing her song.


	42. Part 40

**Part 40:**

The collar exploded with a powerful concussive detonation that threw everyone in the room off of their feet, even slamming Adjudicator Benoit roughly against the back of her chair.

"Free at last!" roared the Pride Demon, instantly summoning other demons from the Fade.

"She was powerful. There have been many strong mages for me to drink of, but she—she was the most powerful of them all." He roared with laughter, "I am unstoppable!"

Then, just like that, he was gone. His voice lingered in the room, though, "We will meet again, mortals. You will not like it when we do."

The Chevaliers swiftly dispatched the demons while Wynne turned her attention to Mira. Quickly, she applied poultices to her belly and then to her back. She stood up, casting a Heal on the suffering woman in Alistair's arms.

Then silence fell.

Mira's eyes opened and she stared at Alistair blankly for a moment.

"Wynne?" she said, searching for the healer with wild eyes.

"I'm here, child."

Mira pulled from Alistair's arms and sobbed in Wynne's arms. "I thought you were dead. I thought you were all dead."

Wynne simply held her and patted her softly.

A throat cleared, and the companions looked up to find the Adjudicator watching them with a sad smile. "There is the matter of Chevalier Montreux," she said.


	43. Part 41

_So sorry for the spam, all... I tried to fix an earlier chapter, and I made an error in doing so out of unfamiliarity with the site's mechanism. Please forgive me, I figured out too late how I could have done it without spamming you. It won't happen again!_

**Part 41:**

"I understand that you may want to punish him yourself. But the only ones with the rights to mete justice to Chevaliers are Chevaliers and the Royal Guard."

"I will be pleased to stand—"

"Wait." Mira looked up as Alistair spoke.

Alistair. Her heart broke again. He would never forgive her. How could he? She couldn't forgive herself.

"How does one become a Chevalier?"

"You must be vetted by at least two Chevaliers, and you must best one in combat." The old woman on the chair told him primly.

"I will vet him," said one of the Chevaliers, a handsome man with blond hair who winked at Leliana when he was done speaking.

Another one, young and bashful chimed in, "I will vet him as well, Lady Adjudicator."

The woman on the chair was smiling like a satisfied cat now. "Very well." She turned and Mira saw Chevalier Montreux standing in shackles between two men, his eyes wild with rage.

She trembled, and Wynne's hold on her tightened slightly. "He can never hurt you again," she said, low and even in Mira's ear.

It was slim comfort.

"Do you wish the opportunity to redress the grievances against you?"

He nodded curtly, glaring at Mira and causing her to shrink against Wynne again.

"Then you will agree to fight this Warden?"

"Sure," Montreux said. "And when I win?"

"When you win, you will be sentenced by your fellow Chevaliers, with leniency in mind." She turned to look at the blond Chevalier. "Do you agree, Chevalier Fontaine?"

He looked over at Alistair, as if assessing him. After a few moments, he turned and looked at the Adjudicator. "Let it be so."

"Then it shall be so."


	44. Part 42

**Part 42:**

"Fight to yield or to incapacitation," Fontaine said, and then stepped away.

Montreux stepped around Alistair, and Alistair let him circle, turning with him but stubbornly not giving ground.

When Montreux charged at him, he let out a mighty War Cry, feeling the fury turn to magic as it rolled out of him. The Chevalier was thrown back, landing hard on the ground.

Before he could get up, Alistair hit him with a powerful uppercut of the shield. Montreux staggered and stepped back, blood dripping from under his helm. The pair moved around each other again, searching, searching, ever searching for an instant of weakness.

Montreux darted forward, faster than one would think a man could move in plate armor, and slammed his shield hard against Alistair, popping the pommel of his sword out to slam brutally into his helmet when the Warden parried the expected slash.

It was Alistair's turn to stand shaking his head, trying to clear it. Montreux pressed his advantage, slashing into Alistair's upper thigh.

Metal screamed and tore. Alistair grunted. Blood covered Montreux's sword.

Alistair stepped back, bringing his sword back in tight and shifting the sword. When Montreux's eyes darted to it, he slammed the sword out hard, hitting Montreux's sword arm with a powerful 'crack!'

It was clearly broken, but the Chevalier didn't hesitate. He knelt, and in a single smooth motion, let go of the forward strap of his shield and pulled a poultice out. Immediately, the arm was knit, and he picked up the sword again.

"He's cheating!" Mira gasped.

Alistair dimly heard Fontaine speaking to her. "No. There are no rules in this fight. Criminals, demons, Darkspawn… they don't fight fair. So neither can we."

Blood continued to run out of the hard, sharp cut on his leg, and he knew his time was running out. Montreux knew what he was doing, and the cut was far more than superficial. It was well-aimed, nicking the femoral artery.

He had maybe a minute, or less before he could no longer function. Even a nick to this artery was deadly, and he could feel the faintness setting in already.

He should yield so that he could live. He really should. But Montreux saw the amount of blood he was losing, and grinned.

His confidence, his arrogance, was his undoing.

He came in towards Alistair, who exaggerated his suffering, pretending to be faint and dying already—though there was less pretense in it than he would have wished.

When the Chevalier brought his sword up for a final blow, obviously believing that he could 'accidentally' kill Alistair, the Warden lurched forward, driving his sword upwards with all his strength.

The Chevalier's arm severed as the sword sliced into it, dangling crazily as his sword dropped the floor. He reached for another poultice, but Alistair was too close this time. His other hand, disengaged from the shield, was sliced as well, though with much less efficiency than the other.

It was enough, though, that he could use neither.

He screamed, rather like a little girl, Alistair thought.

"I yield, I yield! Save me!" Chevalier Montreux screamed, then promptly lost control of his bowel and his bladder.

Alistair lost consciousness and tumbled to the ground.


	45. Part 43

**Part 43:**

Wynne let go of her, immediately casting a Heal that washed over Alistair in a rushing wave of magic.

He stood up slowly, and Montreux still knelt where he was. "Help me!" the Chevalier wailed again, and Mira felt pity for him, despite all he had done to her. His piteous weeping grated across her, and she both wanted to run over and kick him, and to scream at Wynne to heal him.

"So, am I a Chevalier now?" Alistair asked, and Mira felt an urge to ask him if it was really important right now, while he still stood in a pool of his own blood, with twisted armor and a wound still visible on his leg through the armor.

"It would seem that you are," Adjudicator Benoit told him. "And since it is you whom he has wronged, as a Chevalier, his fate is in your hands."

Alistair turned them, and Mira had never seen him so grim. Hate and rage was clear on his face as he stepped closer to Montreux.

He didn't even look at her as he lifted his sword, taking it in both hands. In a single, swift action, he cut Montreux's head off.

Mira gasped as it rolled across the floor, stopping to stare blankly at her, a shocked, terrified look still written across its face.

She turned and vomited as the body continued to pump blood into the air, a shimmering red spray of once-life that slowed an then ceased within seconds.

Adjudicator Benoit coughed. "In the future, Chevalier Theirin, may I remind you that it's considered unseemly to kill your fellow Chevaliers?" But she was smiling, her wrinkled face giving the smile a vaguely wolfish appearance.

Alistair brought the sword up in front of his face in a salute. "I will remember that… in the future."

"Unfortunately, there is a problem. When a new Chevalier is brought into the ranks, he is given a ring to commemorate his ascension," Chevalier Fontaine told him. "But I didn't expect to be inducting anyone, and I have none on me. It may be some time before I can—"

One of the Chevaliers, the young and shy one, cleared his throat. When he found everyone looking at him, his face turned several shades of red, before he cleared his throat again and said, breaking on the first syllable, "Perhaps we should defrock the Chevalier Montreux. Is it not customary, for crimes as great as his? Then his ring would be available…"

He stopped talking, swallowing reflexively.

Fontaine stared at the young Chevalier for a moment, then said, "You, my boy, are a brilliant tactician. I'm glad you're on our side."

The young Chevalier grinned, though he grew red again. "Thank you, Ser!"

"All in favor of the defrocking, say 'Aye'," Fontaine shouted.

As one, every single Chevalier in the room except Alistair lifted their fists and slammed them against their breastplates. Then they raised their fists into the air in a single accord. "Aye!"

The shout rang from the walls, seeming to echo and grow until it abruptly ceased.

"Now, that's just creepy," Alistair said. "It's almost like the castle was talking."

"It's alive," Mira said.


	46. Part 44

**Part 44:**

Everyone turned to look at her. "I realized it when I was collared," she said, looking down and sidling towards Wynne. "It's haunted by someone he killed. She woke up when she sensed me here…"

"Okay," Alistair said, looking around him. "You can never get enough 'creepy,' I guess."

"I'm glad that collar is destroyed," Mira said.

"Your happiness may be a bit premature," Adjudicator Benoit said, her face grim as she exchanged a glance with Fontaine. "This is the fifth one I've encountered. This is not an isolated case, and I'm deeply concerned about it."

"What?" Wynne gasped. "This cannot be tolerated! It's bad enough that some mages can become abominations, but that one can be possessed against his or her will is simply unthinkable!"

"We must return to Ferelden," Leliana said. "We must warn the Circle of Magi."

"But we need to get Mira to the Wardens," Alistair said.

Adjudicator Benoit raised her hand to stop the conversation. "As a Senior Adjudicator—you'd never have guess I was a Senior Adjudicator, I'm sure—I also have some limited jurisdiction over Wardens as well."

"What?" Alistair said, obviously upset by this knowledge.

"Even Wardens can do evil things, Chevalier," the elderly woman told him sternly. "You should know by now that not all of them have morals or principles."

She held his gaze until he couldn't hold hers any longer. She was right, of course. Royce and proven that to him. It was unfortunate that Duncan died. Somehow, he was sure that he wouldn't have tolerated Royce's actions.

"I release her to return to Ferelden. You are in need of Wardens there, and we have many sitting idle in Barracks. Her existence as an Orlais appointed Warden has been unknown here. It will be left as such, upon the oath of all here. She shall belong to Ferelden, as she was born to do. I release her from Orlesian service."

Then she turned to look at Mira, and Alistair followed her gaze. "Unless this is not what you wish, dear?"

Mira looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked her what she wanted before. "I… that would be acceptable, I think."

"So it is decided, and the issue resolved. Chevalier Fontaine, will you set up camp at the border, so that they may return to you once their Circle is notified? We must know more of the demon who occupied that necklace, and I am loathe to bring in our own Mages at this time. Given the delicate nature of what has happened here, this could escalate into a political incident."

Alistair saw the Chevalier look at Leliana before he turned and grinned at the Adjudicator. "I will do as you ask, Lady Adjudicator."

"Hmph, well. That's settled, then. I need some dinner. Would you be so kind as to accompany me, Lady Mac Tir?" she asked Mira.

Alistair winced at the reminder. He had so much to apologize for.

Mira's face lit up, "I would love to. I'm famished!"

From behind him, he heard Wynne say, "It's a good thing that was a Pride demon in there. That's why it had a hard time controlling her. If it had been a Hunger demon, we would all have been in serious trouble."

Laughter, like relief, flashed through the room. Even Mira, though obviously embarrassed by the assessment, giggled slightly.

It was an exquisite sound.


	47. Part 45

**Part 45:**

At the Adjudicator's insistence, they all took time to take baths before arriving at the dining hall. Mira lay in her bath, listening to the other two women chattering. The women's bathing chamber was large, and echoed with their voices like a cavern.

A fire nearby chattered happily, and Mira found herself drawn into its sound. It made no sense, and yet she felt as if it was the spirit that now inhabited the castle talking to her. She began to drift in and out of a pre-sleep trance.

"He loves you," the fire said. "…go with him.." it went on as she drifted into the trance again. "…fear kills the mind…"

"Mira?" Wynne's voice pulled her out of her reverie.

"Yes?" she asked, sitting up. "Would you like for us to wait for you?"

"No," Mira told her. "I'll be right down."

Wynne and Leliana exchanged concerned looks, but turned and left.

Mira looked over at the fire. "I can't go with him. I can't go back to the Circle Tower. If I do, they'll know I'm an Apostate. And they'll kill me."

The fire dimmed slightly, its flame less cheerful.

"I'll go to the Warden Headquarters there. That's where he'll be going when he's done with this whole thing. Maybe he'll have forgiven me by then."

The fire said nothing, dimming further. It was clear the Castle did not approve of her assessment of her situation.

She sighed and climbed out of the water.

Something whispered in the back of her mind. "Take you with me? I can't do that."

The fire spoke again, a whisper, a clue, a thought, a half-remembered dream. "Very well, I will find it, and bring you with me."

She dressed and left the room, wearing a robe that the others had found in a chest while they were searching for her. It was definitely a mage robe, and fit her perfectly. It was warmer and thicker than her old one, a fact that relieved her greatly.

She went through the castle, following instinctual prompts, until she found a Library. There, she went inside and pulled a torch out of its place. A bookcase slid aside, and she entered the dark cavern, taking the torch with her.

She absently pulled a lever on her way past, closing the opening behind her.

Soon, she arrived in a guest room, and searched under the mattress. Then she felt it. A simple stamp intended for sealing wax. She lifted it, and watched the shade of the woman haunting the castle walk into it.

Then she left the room and headed for the dining hall.


	48. Part 46

_I just wanted to say that I think I probably am as excited to find reviews and favoritings in my email inbox as you guys are to find story posts, lol. Thank you to you all. You readers make it worth taking the time to post the story. :)_

**Part 46:**

She was shuffled over to sit beside him. He could tell that Wynne was manipulating the situation on purpose. With the bard's help, no less.

But he was okay with it. Happy, even. He could feel her warmth through the leather that covered his leg as he let his thigh lay against hers. It was a comforting, sweet feeling.

Yet she sat beside him trembling and barely able to eat. She had been through so much, he wondered that she could be in public at all so soon.

As the moments passed, and she began to eat, though, the Wardens' appetite overtook her. She began to eat with ravenous ferver.

The others in the room seemed to notice nothing, all apparently aware of and used to the excessive appetite that came with being tainted by the Darkspawn. He was grateful, because the combination of his own taint, and the loss of blood left him ravenous as well.

They sat in comfortable silence as they ate.

The servants continually returned to heap food on their plates. Not once did he or Mira have to ask for anything. Their cups were refilled immediately, and their plates kept full. When a servant noticed a tremor run through Mira when he was bringing her food, a hot stone was brought for her feet, wrapped in a cloth to prevent burns.

She smiled gratefully, until she saw Alistair staring at her, then she swallowed audibly, turned white, and went back to eating.

He stifled a sigh and finished his own meal. She would never forgive him. He had treated her cruelly, even nearly attacked her. And then she'd been assaulted by another man—and who knew how completely (the thought made him nearly vomit)—and he had done what? Nothing.

Well, not nothing in the end. But nothing along the way when he should have done… something. He wasn't sure what, but obviously he should have done something.

He put the fork down. What if Montreux had… what if he had touched her and made her… do things? He swallowed, but his stomach rebelled and fought his attempts to calm it.

He got up and fled the room. If he had violated her, and all he had done was casually lop off his head… well. It wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough. She deserved better.

"What'sa mattah with ye?" Oghren asked him just as Alistair reached for the jug of ale in the kitchens.

"Oghren. What if he… what if she…"

"Spit it out, ya stinkin' surface rat. Ye can't keep actin' like that around 'er all the time or she's gonna think yer soft in the head, if ya know what I mean."

"What if he…" Alistair buried his face in his hands. "What if he made her have sex with him, Oghren? I should have tortured him. I should have made him pay!" Alistair was sick in the fire pit.

Oghren took the ale away from him and swigged some.

"Well, if he did—and ye don't know—ye don't want to be swillin' and blurting any ol' thing that comes to yer mind. She's gonna need ye to be a man, not a bronto's behind, don't ye think?"

He waved the ale vaguely, "Oh, and ye need ta consider. If she can stand it without drinkin', then don't ye think, as a man, ye ought to do at least that? It was she what maybe was and maybe wasn't raped."

"I just… I can't imagine what she went through," Alistair said, his heart aching.

"Of course ye can't, so why're ye tryin'? She don't need ya to understand, she needs ya to be patient and nice to 'er. Ye ain't gonna do that if yer drinkin'. Ain't never seen anyone worse with the drink then ye."

Oghren stomped out, leaving Alistair alone with the rancid scent of burned vomit.


	49. Part 47

**Part 47:**

The comforting warmth of his leg was gone. She was done eating. Though she thought she might never feel full again—despite feeling like she was so full she could burst. The strange hunger of the Wardens, she was told.

But as time went by, she listened to the conversation flowing around her, and she felt lulled into comfort. This was a peaceful place. She wished idly that she could just stay here.

It was so much brighter and warmer now without Montreux in it.

Alistair had returned, but she barely registered it—and mainly because his leg pressed against hers and was a center of warmth and human contact. She needed that more than she needed anything right in that moment.

Her head jerked as she nearly fell asleep right where she sat. She'd barely slept with the collar on, her skin constantly crawling and her mind under continuous assault. She was exhausted to the very core of her being.

"Whoa!" Alistair said as she started to fall.

"Sorry," she mumbled, incoherently. "Too tired, gotta rest…"

He picked her up. She thought he did, anyway. Then she knew no more for a time. When she awoke, she was in another guest room, with a canopied bed. She'd never slept in a canopied bed, but always wanted one.

It was a strange thought.

Alistair was there, laying her down. She noticed that he had shaved.

She laid her hand on his cheek, "Is it the Fade now? You're shaved."

He chuckled. "I do shave, you know."

But she was drifting away. He started to leave and she clung to him. She was too tired to care if he hated her. She was too terrified.

"Don't leave me alone!" she almost shrieked it.

He jumped, but sat back down. Still clinging to him, she felt darkness coming. "Promise. Be here when I wake up."

"Okay."

"Promise!" wakefulness tried to intrude, terror at its root.

"I promise, Mira."

She woke some time later with her head on his shoulder. He was snoring. She couldn't stay awake long enough to sort out why he was there. It must have been a dream; a sweet, beautiful dream.

But her dreams were anything but wonderful. Montreux pursued her down haunted hallways.


	50. Part 48

**Part 48:**

He'd barely slept. But at last, it had taken him down into its warm depths, and now he was warm and cozy with a soft, warm body snuggled up against him. He eased from the depths of slumber, looking down at her.

She was sleeping still, and he watched her, for he knew not how long…

He wondered how someone who seemed so fragile and shy could withstand so much. How she could be so delicate and yet so incredibly powerful.

She squeaked softly in her sleep, her brow furrowing. She began to twitch, and he wanted nothing more than to comfort her.

"Shh," he whispered softly to her, and stroked her cheek.

The effect was immediate, and really, all things considered, not very flattering.

She sat straight up and started screaming. Then she saw him, and blinked twice, "Alistair?"

He was trying to disentangle himself from the blankets, so at first he wondered what that terrible smell was.

Then he realized that her hands were layered in fire, and the blankets were rapidly starting to flame as well.

"Ahhhh!" he yelled. Coincidentally, right in her face.

"Ahhhh!" she yelled back, her face going sheet white.

"Ahhhh!" he yelled again, pointing at the fire.

"Ahhhh!" she screamed as her predicament set in.

He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her out of the bed the instant the flames at her hands went out.

So it was that the rest of the company came running into the room, with the pair of them clinging to each other, and the bed on fire.

"Way to go, Alistair!" Zevran said cheerfully.

"Maker preserve us!" Leliana cried and ran for the washbasin.

"Alistair!" Wynne admonished.

"Atta boy!" Oghren said, clapping and then giving 'cheers' with his beard mug.

"No, no, no!" Alistair protested. "It was nothing like that!"

"We didn't—" Mira started. "It was my fault," she said then.

"Wooo! Now that's the way it outta be," Oghren gloated.

Jumping away from him, the fire now under control thanks to Leliana, Mira pointed at the door. "Out! All of you!"

It was surprisingly commanding, and Alistair gaped at her. She scowled at him. "You, too!"

He found himself out in the hallway, facing two irate women and two grinning men—buffoons, really.

"It wasn't what you think!" he protested. "I didn't… we didn't…" He threw his hands up in the air as expressions got worse. "Oh, what's the use."

He stomped to his own room and slammed the door. "She tried to light me on fire!" he yelled through the door, and then fell onto his bed, beating the pillow senseless.


	51. Part 49

**Part 49:**

"This was a terrible idea," he told her again.

"So you've said," Mira told the young Chevalier from between clenched teeth.

"Let's just go back."

She turned on him, making him nearly bump into her. "You go back if you want to. I didn't invite you along, anyway."

"I can't. Someone has to watch over you," he told her, crossing his arms and looking stubborn.

For a shy, retiring, barely-able-to-speak Chevalier, Sandy had turned out to be quite the talker. And that was when he was quiet. Once so far, that she could recall.

"Can't you just be quiet?" she asked him.

"Sure," he said.

"So why are you running away?" He'd made it almost a whole thirty seconds that time.

She glared at him. "I'm not running away."

"What would you call it?"

"I'm escaping," she told him. "I can't go to the Circle of Magi, and they insist we go there first. It would seem the Headquarters are in the Capitol, and supposedly it's not safe for me there."

"Well, maybe they're right. The news coming out of Ferelden is bad right now, really b—"

"Nowhere in Ferelden is safe for me," Mira said. "But I'd rather be Ferelden than to be an Orlesian where anyone who wants to can claim me." Her voice was bitter, and she didn't even try to hide it.

"We're not all like that, you know," Sandy said.

She didn't say anything. What could she say, that she didn't believe him? That even if that was true—and maybe it was—that didn't mean that there were no more like Montreux?

"This isn't how family treats each other. You stick together."

Now she was angry. "What do you know of it? My family dumped me off in the Circle and never looked back. They told everyone I was dead. They threw me away like garbage."

"And now you're doing it to them?"

"They're not my family!"

"They're the closest thing you've got," Sandy said, obstinately sticking to the dreadful topic.

"Alistair almost killed me when he learned that I am a Mac Tir. It doesn't mean anything to anyone. They want nothing to do with me. Most people don't know, and would only make fun of my family if they did. But he almost killed me for it."

"Everybody makes mistakes," he told her.

Didn't he ever give up?

"Everybody tries to kill you?"

"He saved you, and killed Montreux."

"You don't know the whole story," she told him. And she wouldn't tell him. When Alistair found out she was an apostate, as an ex Templar, he would have to kill her. It was what Templars did, there was no way around it.

"Well, then tell me. Tell them. Let us help you."

"I don't need help. I need to get away. I can't go to the Circle of Magi," she said, feeling terror and misery creeping in. "They're better off going without me and figuring this out without me along to make everything complicated."


	52. Part 50

**Part 50:**

She was gone. They'd searched the castle from top to bottom, even the grounds. The place was crawling with weeping servants—who saw her as the one who had liberated them from Chevalier, a point that irritated Alistair somewhat—and searching Gaurdsmen.

"Nothing," Wynne said. "No one even saw them leave."

"She's too smart fer that," Oghren said.

"One of my men is missing as well. He must have seen her, and rather than report to me, went with her to try to reason with her. I can only guess he has failed," Chevalier Fontaine said with a heavy sigh.

"One of your men?" Alistair said, jealousy flaring up in him, as well as fear.

Fontaine seemed to understand his true concern. "Not to worry. It's Sandy—Alexander Larouche. Our youngest, the one that can barely spit out two sentences in the company of strangers."

"But who never, ever, ever shuts up otherwise," one of the others piped up.

Fontaine gave him a quelling glance, but the rest were already snickering.

"We'll have to go after her."

"She doesn't want to be with you," Fontaine told him.

Alistair crossed his arms, scowling at the other man. "You're wrong. She's just mad at me. And she just went through something awful, she needs me—"

Wynne coughed, a definite "pardon me?" sound.

"—us, with her!"

"If a woman runs away, you don't go running after her. You make her come back to you. Otherwise, you're just a… a… a stalker, or something," Fontaine said, scowling back.

"This isn't a woman, this is Mira!" Alistair said, barely keeping himself from yelling.

Snickers flickered around the room again, and he thumped his fist on the table. "You know what I mean!"

"Really, I don't know what you mean," Fontaine said.

"I am not going to let her go, just like that," Alistair said. "Not until I've had a chance to apologize, and tell her how I feel. Then she can go if she still wants to. I won't stop her after that."

"Women don't like to be chased!" Fontaine argued.

"And pray tell us, how would you know? Have you been one before?" Leliana asked him.

"No. But I do know a thing or two about women. For example, you wish I'd pluck you up and throw you over my charger and ride off into the sunset with you, right now." He raised an eyebrow at her as if in challenge.

"You have a charger?" she asked, clearly lighting up with an idea, forgetting the point of his jest.

"Well, he's more like an old plow horse with a bored face and a pot belly," he said. "But these are minor details—"

"You can go look for her; you'll outrun her even on an old nag."

"He's not a nag! Not really," Fontaine said. "And the terrain's too rough for him. He's mostly for show, and sometimes not even healthy enough for that anymore."

"You feed him too much and exercise him too little," Leliana told him.

"Well, we can give him some exercise. That offer to sweep you away is still standing."

"Can we get back to Mira?" Alistair asked crossly. "Sorry Leliana, but at least I know you're safe."

"That's okay, Alistair. I understand. We shall go after her, of course."

"Those collars are too important," Wynne disagreed. "I care for Mira, too. But we must go and deliver this information to Irving at the Circle of Magi. If we do not, the price may be too great for us all."


	53. Part 51

**Part 51: **

"Must we go through every single bramble patch we see? And I need to stop, I have a stone in my boot. Really, this is a harebrained—"

"Must you complain about every little thing?" she asked him.

"I haven't been! I've said not a word about the rain, nor have I mentioned that my greaves are chafing. I've been remarkably silent about the fact that my codpiece—"

"ARG! Don't say it! Don't you dare say it!" she almost yelled. "I don't want to know about your codpiece, by the breath of the Maker's behind!"

"Well, I never! Did you just swear at me? I can't believe such a lady as yourself—"

"It's not technically a swear," she told him smugly.

"It definitely is, too! As if the Maker farts. Whoever heard of such a thing? You drag me along on this ill conceived flight of yours, and you compare me to a fart—"

"I didn't drag you along, you insisted!"

"I had to insist! What choice did you leave me? I'm a Chevalier of the Order of Chivalry, and you're a girl!"

"I'm hardly a girl, I'm older than you are." Now she was getting a bit piqued. She climbed over a rock and saw a bramble patch on the other side of the massive grouping of boulders. "Oh, look, a bramble patch we missed." She started marching towards it.

"Well, I didn't mean 'girl' precisely. It's just that it's dangerous out here, and you're…"

She stopped to look at him.

He blinked, but stumbled gamely on. "You're, you know…" he brought his hands towards each other in the air as if to indicate she was small.

"Little?" she asked, scowling at him.

"Well, you know…"

"Small?" she said then, tapping a foot.

"Er, sort of?"

"Tiny?"

"Oh, not, definitely not tiny!"

She crossed her arms.

"Well, I mean, yes. Well, not really yes. Not fat or anything, I mean. I was going to say 'petite,' actually—"

"Have you ever seen me as a bear?" she told him, trying to make her voice ominous and threatening.

"Yes. Oh yes. You were huge! I mean, not really huge-huge. More like massive." He saw her thunderous look. "But not fat! You weren't fat or anything! You were a very trim bear. Very fit. And trim."

"Say one more word in the next five minutes, and you will see me as one again."

"Okay, sorry!"

"Starting now!"

"Alright."

"Shut up!"

"I am shut up!"

She just sighed. He reminded her so very much of Alistair. He was so much like Alistair, in fact, that for a moment she could picture having this exact same conversation with him, rather than Sandy.

She sat down on the ground and cried.

To his credit, he managed to pat her awkwardly a time or two before pouring sand out of his boot.


	54. Part 52

_Oops! I forgot to post like 3 of these, lol. Anyway, about the "apostate" thing, don't worry... it's going somewhere. I promise. :p_

_Thank you again for those who have left comments. Truly, I can't tell you enough how much I enjoy reading them._

**Part 52: **

They were all looking at him expectantly.

"What?"

Wynne spoke with exaggerated patience. "Do you want Zevran to see if he can find Mira?"

"Oh. Can he do that?"

"Yer unbearable when yer broody, boy." Oghren took a swig from his beard flask.

"Yes, if you can find her, do it," Alistair said. But he held no hope. "But don't tie her up or anything. I mean, just come get us. Or something. I don't know! But you know... be nice."

"Kinda late fer that." Oghren snickered.

"Just come get us, unless she's too far ahead. Then if you have to… well. Tell her I'm sorry. And I… I love her. If she won't come back then, I guess she doesn't want to." Alistair fell back into his black thoughts.

"So, my lovely bard, I understand you are a wanted woman in Orlais," Chevalier Fontaine told Leliana as they walked on.

"Once, I was wanted here for treason, but no more. Would I be so foolish as to venture here if I were still wanted?" she said pertly.

He grabbed her and, ignoring her gasp, began waltzing her around the party. To music, incidentally, that only he seemed able to hear.

"I seem to have forgotten that part. I wonder if I should whisk you away and hide you in my dungeon until I find out the truth of the matter? I own a castle, you know. It has three rooms and a dungeon. Perhaps more like a cellar, but one can't be too picky with castles, you know."

"If you should do that, surely I would perish. The Maker himself has sent me on this mission, and I cannot deny him."

"Alas, would that I was the Maker, and my every whim, your command," he said. "I would then ask that you frequent my castle on every trip through Orlais."

"Perhaps you need not be the Maker to make such a request," she told him.

"Is he serious?" Zevran asked. "I could do a much better job than that. Why, he hasn't brought up sex once."

"Never fear, assassin, I can find my way around a woman's skirts!" Fontaine said, his voice jolly. "Pardon me, lady, no disrespect intended."

"Are you going to take her prisoner, or not?" Alistair asked. "Pick one so we can get on with it."

"Is my talking with the lady slowing your feet, then, Chevalier?" Fontaine asked him.

"I'm a Warden," Alistair snapped.

"Indeed. And a man. And a Chevalier, as well. A once-Templar. A bit whiny, to be quite blunt about it. Though I wouldn't dream of doing so."

Alistair threw his hands up and shook them in rage. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Because you're the one grumbling at me, not I at you, Warden."


	55. Part 53

**Part 53:**

She had spent her whole life in the Circle, almost. He had spent his whole life in a townhouse until he was chosen for the guard and went on to become a Chevalier.

She knew, because he told her; twice on the first day, and again on the second day.

Which really, was central to the problem they were having. She hadn't brought a tent. She had pilfered enough food for one person. She hadn't thought to bring wax, or a flint and tender, or… well. The list was growing rapidly.

They had spent the night crammed under an outcropping, with no fire. Wet, and cold, and barely able to sleep.

It wasn't going well. She had finally managed to make a log catch fire, so they at least got to warm up for a bit that morning. But now they were up into the mountains, and Sandy's teeth were chattering like a wombat. Whatever a wombat was. She read about them once in a book, and apparently, they chattered a lot.

On the up side, he had finally stopped talking nonstop. Now it was intermittent complaints about the lack of food, the fact that he was probably going to freeze to death and all because he was stupid enough to follow a woman into the woods—she agreed with his 'stupid' assessment by that point, simply out of irritation—and various other sundry complaints.

All of which easily echoed her own.

"Do you know that you grunt and howl in your sleep? All night long, too. Not just now and then like normal people. All night. Nonstop."

"It's the Warden nightmares. And some of my own, too."

"It's impossible to sleep through. Very annoying. You really should take a potion or something. There's an old woman out near—"

"I am not going to a witch for potions just so you don't have to listen to me sleep. I told you to go back, and you never did."

"Are you blaming this on me? I think you're blaming this on me. Well, I'll have you know—"

And he just kept going. She tuned him out, because if she didn't, she'd probably call up a wolf or a spider or something and eat him for lunch.

Yes, she was that hungry.

And he was that annoying. How had she ever thought he was anything like Alistair?


	56. Part 54

**Part 54:**

"Did you find her?" Alistair asked, eager for any news, even if it was no news.

"I found her alright. Did you doubt me?" Zevran said, not nearly as smugly as usually.

"Well?"

"She's going in circles. Granted, they're big circles. And not very round circles. But she's going in circles," he explained.

"Really? What would she do that for?"

Fontaine snickered. Alistair glared at him. "What?"

"I doubt she's doing it on purpose. She's probably lost," Fontaine told him.

"She's cold, too. Really cold. I think she needs a warm body to cuddle up to. I was going to volunteer myself, but then I feared that you might stumble upon us and misunderstand the situation," Zevran grinned.

"I'll decide later if I'm happy you found her, or upset that you thought about that," Alistair said, picking up the pace in the direction that Zevran pointed.

"Well, she's probably not there anymore," Zevran told him.

Alistair's heart fell. "Why not?"

"Well, I told her that you were in love with her, and that you were coming to get her. She lit the camp on fire and ran into the woods yelling 'ahhhhh!'," he said, throwing his arms up and running in a circle. "It was truly terrifying, my friend."

The entire company, including the Chevaliers, started laughing. They tried to control it when Alistair started glaring at them, but failed to a person.

"I hate you," Alistair said. "I hate you all."

"Chevalier Larouche may never forgive you for his singed behind," Zevran said.

"You're a bad person."

"I know."

"You're a very bad person."

"Why, thank you. Very kind of you to say so."


	57. Part 55

**Part 55:**

They had arrived at yet another broken down old stone wall. How many of these things were there? But the good part of it was that they'd hit a corner this time. Where the stones came together, there was a good leeward corner, blocking the bitter wind.

"I can't stand it anymore. I need a fire," Mira said. "Help me gather up some wood and stick it in the corner."

"I don't think this is a good idea," Sandy said dubiously.

She glared at him. "Fine, I'll do it myself."

He grumbled, but helped her. And she was smart enough to clear the area of debris, using a fallen branch to sort of "sweep" the leaves and small branches in together. Then they piled various bits of heavier wood on top of it.

"It looks kinda big," Sandy told her, skepticism clear on his face.

"Well, can you do better?"

"No, no. You go ahead. Sorry." He stepped back, his plate armor creaking as he swayed nervously from one foot to the other.

She turned and looked at it for a minute, then took a deep breath. Reaching inside herself, she gently sank into the magic, and coaxed the fire forward. In a sudden, powerful blast, she sent it towards the pile of leaves and wood stacked against the corner of the wooden wall.

The cone of fire flashed and the pile blazed. Unfortunately, the wall curved the flame upwards, shooting it into the sky and along the branches of an overhanging tree. The bottom branches instantly caught the flame.

"Oh dear," Mira said.

"Can't you put it out?" Sandy asked. When she looked at him like he was crazy, he asked, "You know, a water spell?"

"Do you have a water spell?" she asked him.

"Me? No. I'm a Chevalier!" he protested.

"Well, why would you think I had one?" she asked, irked.

"Uh, you're a mage…" he waved his hands from himself to her. "Chevalier… mage… who's more likely to have a water spell?"

She put her hands on her hips. "I'm an arcane mage. That means fire."

"And bears."

"Don't be stupid, a bear isn't going to help us now."

"You're calling me stupid? You just started a forest fire!"

"Well, not on purpose!" she shrieked.

"Zevran wasn't kidding. You really did light the camp on fire," Alistair said. "Does that mean he really did tell you that I love you?"

Fontaine trotted past them. Jumping on the stone wall, he hacked the burning branches off and dropped them in the fire. The tree would survive another day, at least.

Mira turned to face Alistair, her heart in her throat. They had found her.


	58. Part 56

**Part 56:**

She didn't respond to what he'd just said. So he walked up to her. Wynne had warned him that she might be in a fragile mental state, and to go carefully.

He stopped right in front of her, and ran his hands up her arms. "You could have waited for us, you know. I'm sure you're in a hurry to save your fellow mages, but we're not useless. Well," he shot Zevran a look. "Not all of us anyway."

Zevran just grinned and held his hands out to the cheerful, blazing fire.

"I…" she blinked in confusion. "I suppose you're right," she said after an extended hesitation.

"We'll have to talk about your fire habits, too," he said. "I may have no eyebrows left by the time you get done with me."

He sat down on a fallen stone fairly close to the fire, and the rest of the party began to set up camp. "I'm rather fond of them, you know."

She stared blankly at him. "My eyebrows. I'm rather fond of them."

"Oh," she said.

He patted the stone beside him, inviting her to sit down. She sat stiffly and primly as far away from him as she could get. He fought the rising tide of heartbreak. She had never responded to his declaration.

And she looked more and more miserable every moment.

"It shouldn't take us long to get to the Circle Tower," he said, trying lamely to make conversation.

Her face went so white that for a moment he thought she was going to faint. She must be starving! What was wrong with him!

He pulled a pack off and started pulling out food. Handing her a roll, he tossed one to Sandy as well. He left the pack open at her feet, but she just stared at the roll and didn't eat.

"Tell me what's wrong," he said. She looked blankly at him. "Please?" he cajoled. "I promise not to eat both feet at once. Maybe one, but not both."

A tear ran down her cheek and he reached up to wipe it away.

"I can't go back to the tower," she said, her voice strangled and desperate.

"Oh Mira. I'm so sorry. I should have realized," Wynne said.

Realized? Realized what? And should he have realized it too? 'What, Wynne, what?' he wanted to scream.

"Mages are virtually prisoners there. Once we've tasted freedom, it can be a terrifying prospect to go back," Wynne said.

Alistair should have realized, he realized. Because that was how he felt walking into Chantries.

Wynne was comforting a sobbing Mira, and he was jealous.

"You can stay at the camp, Mira. It's okay, you don't have to go to the tower. We'll even camp a ways out from it, and just Wynne and I will go. Okay?" It was the best he could offer her.

She nodded, but didn't answer otherwise.

Maybe he was stupid, after all.


	59. Part 57

**Part 57:**

They weren't going to make her go to the Tower. She sobbed in relief, felt it pour over her like the rain.

"You won't tell them I'm there?" she asked finally.

"Well, certainly. They'll want to know that you'll be staying in Ferelden. You have friends there, who may wish to come see you. Unless you prefer we don't, if it's too much for you right now?" Wynne said, her face understanding.

Mira hated lying to her. "I can't see anyone right now. I… I don't feel like myself yet."

It wasn't a complete lie. She felt altered. She felt different. She was different. But she would never be 'herself' again, if that meant going back to how she used to feel.

But misery tugged at her. They had to find out eventually. When they did, they would kill her. She sat and stared into the fire.

Wynne patted her hand. "Perhaps when you're ready, you will tell me what's bothering you." She smiled and moved to another stone to eat.

Mira chewed the bread and cheese, swallowing it with difficulty. But slowly, her body's new metabolism took over, and she found herself eating with quite indelicate ferver.

One thing she understood. She wouldn't survive without them. And the chances were that she might survive with them, at least for a while.

She looked at Alistair's profile, lit by the dancing flames even as dusk crowded in around them. It would be worth it to spend her remaining days with him. If she was going to die anyway, she just as well die fighting Darkspawn at Alistair's side.

Cheered by the notion, she continued eating, glancing at him now and then, unable to keep her eyes off of him.

"I'm sorry about the fire," she told him. "I was startled, I didn't mean to."

He looked at her, his eyes hooded and broody. "It's okay. I'm sorry about judging you for your family name. People did it to me all my life, I regret doing it to you."

"I don't blame you," she said. "My family has done some terrible things."

"You're not like them, Mira," Alistair said. "At least, not in the bad ways."

She lowered her voice. "Alistair, I…"

He was looking at her, a hopeful look on his face. She wanted to tell him. She really did. But…

"Don't be so sure," she told him, fighting back tears. She would not cry again. She wouldn't, she swore it to herself. "I didn't want to be a mage. It happens to you, you don't choose it. And I didn't want it."

"I didn't want to be in the Chantry, either. But I did the best I could with it, just like you did with being a mage. You're a great mage—" he trailed off.

She shook her head. "It's not the same. I didn't… It wasn't the same," she said. Alistair didn't run away, he was conscripted. "It's not the same at all."

"Thank you for the food."

"Right," Alistair said, staring into the fire again.


	60. Part 58

_Sorry, I am running low on time right now. I'm sorry I'm not being faster with replying to reviews. I do truly enjoy and appreciate them! _

_Life has gotten busy all of a sudden, so I'm writing when I do have time, and then posting sometimes between other activities. Please forgive me if I'm not as attentive to comments as I wish to be. I read and savor every one!_

**Part 58:**

He barely slept that night. It was almost like she didn't even hear him. He'd thought there for a moment… but no.

That wasn't the worst part. The worst part was everyone else. They kept… looking at him. Or purposely not looking at him. That pitiful look, he could barely stand it.

He sat up and stared into the fire, still blazing with unnatural ferocity even in the deep of the night. It wasn't his watch, but he decided he would go and stand one anyway. If he couldn't sleep anyway, someone else just as well.

Then he heard her soft cries. They were quiet and low, but he knew she was Darkspawn Dreaming. There was nothing darker or more frightening than those dreams.

Well, maybe for her now, there was.

But if went to comfort her, she would just fry him, most likely. Or unman him. Again.

He dressed quickly, and nodded at the Chevalier on watch. An older man, he thanked Alistair, and then shrewdly said nothing more, not arguing with him or trying to comfort him.

He told him when to wake the next, and pointed him out. Then he went to his bedroll without a further word.

"You are disappointed," Leliana said, coming up beside him, pulling a woolen cloak around her shoulders in the chill night air.

"I wouldn't say that. More like crushed. Destroyed. Broken, maybe," he said.

He expected her to laugh, to think he was joking. Wasn't he always joking.

"She is afraid of something. Something that is outside of all of this. Maybe something happened while she was wearing that collar. In Val Royeux, there were people who argued that demons should be used, controlled. That mages were more dangerous because they could call demons and control them, than because demons could control them."

What did that mean? What was she talking about?

"But there is something even more dangerous than this, I think. And she knows and understands that."

"What could be more dangerous than a demon controlled mage, or a mage controlled demon, besides an Archdemon?" he asked.

"What about a demon controlled mage under the control of a man like Montreux?"

A shudder ran through him. She definitely had a point. A huge one.

"We can't let that happen."

"I know you're feeling bad now," she told him. "But we all have to focus first on this threat. If one of those men has found a way to control the demon collars, we could be in real trouble. And a mage as powerful as Mira, or as powerful as Wynne, would be even more dangerous than when the Circle was taken by blood mages."

"Does it never end?" Alistair said. "I just want a little farm. I think I'll steal Fontaine's horse for my plow."

Leliana's silvery laugh tickled the air. "Good night, Alistair."

"'Night Leliana."


	61. Part 59

**Part 59:**

They traveled for another few days until they reached the other side of the pass. It had been a tough journey, fighting the whole way as they had to. Between bandits and Darkspawn, they encountered frequent battles.

One might have thought at least the bandits would have left them alone, but apparently they failed to recognize that this was a group of Chevaliers.

Mira went out of her way to be nice to the others. But as the hours passed and the whole group became quieter, she just walked. They left the Chevaliers behind, traveling on into Ferelden.

She felt vulnerable, exposed, even endangered without them. She felt uneasy that she had come to rely on them to protect her. Just as she had the Templars. Of course, they knew the Templars were their jailors, but they were often also reminded that the Chantry was all that stood between them and brutal, violent witch hunts.

It was the Chantry and the Templars, or it was death.

She had chosen to risk death, and now she was marching right back within range of the Templars. They didn't need her phylactery when she threw herself right back into their waiting arms!

"We'll camp here," Alistair said.

Mira nearly jumped out of her skin. She had become more restless and distressed, the closer they got to her doom, and the fact that his voice was soft when he said it did nothing to ease the terror the sound instilled in her for a moment.

For a desperate, heart-pounding moment, she almost wished she was back in Montreux's castle, chained in a guest room or a dungeon… But no. It was a thought so swiftly there and then gone that she was shocked it had even occurred to her.

She suddenly felt relief. The idea brought up reality for her. She had, in large part, chosen this. She wanted to be in control of the way that she died. She wanted to choose. It would be a slap in the face to all those who had spent their lives dedicated to taking all of her choices away.

Soon, they had set up their camp, and after eating and washing up to the best of their ability, Alistair and Wynne set off for the Tower.

"Would you like to go to the tavern at the docks?" Leliana asked Mira.

Miserable, she shook her head. She just wanted the others to hurry and inform Irving and then she wanted to flee as fast as her feet could carry her.

She could almost smell the Templars from there.


	62. Part 60

**Part 60:**

"This is more serious than you realize," First Enchanter Irving told them. "This is happening in Ferelden, as well. In fact, I think it may be happening more here than it is there.

"Oh, Greagoir, there you are," he said when the Knight-Commander strode into the room.

"What is this about, Irving?" the tense, gray-bearded man asked him in clipped tones.

"The collars," Irving said.

Alistair squirmed as Greagoir's eyes found him and raked him with a scathing glance. "Why should it surprise me to find you messed up in all this?" he said with no small amount of contempt.

Alistair saluted him. "It's the curse of a Warden to end up the middle of things, I suspect," he said, trying to ease the tension. "Or maybe I'm just lucky."

"Hmph," the aging, powerful Templar responded, before turning back to Irving. "Are you sure this is wise to discuss in front of these people?"

"They have encountered one directly," Irving told him. "In fact, they have a mage in camp who has worn one, and a Bard and a Rogue who were able to disarm it together."

"You don't say?" Greagoir said, his whole demeanor changing completely. "Bring her in, we will speak with her."

"She is deeply averse to coming to the Tower," Wynne told them. "I think it holds… memories… for her."

"Very well. If it will be an undue burden on her, we will go with you," Irving said.

Greagoir opened his mouth to protest, then clamped it shut again suddenly at a strange look from Irving. Alistair didn't like this, not at all. Something was up, and the looks passing between these two men were not good ones.

"You're not going to hurt her, are you?" he asked suspiciously, his hand going to the pommel of his sword almost without his awareness.

"No, no!" Irving reassured him. "She is a valuable asset in protecting Mages from these collars. We cannot afford to antagonize her in any way. We will go and discuss this issue there, for her comfort."

They prepared to leave the tower, and Knight-Commander Greagoir stopped at the door. "Do you feel you are sufficient to protect myself and the person of the First Enchanter, ex Templar, or should I summon one of my men to go with us?"

Bristling, suspecting that Greagoir was baiting him, Alistair told him, "I believe I can protect you. But if you feel you are too feeble to be protected by a single Warden and two mages, then I will not be offended if you summon one of your men."

Greagoir laughed. "Very well. I will not offend you by summoning another protector," he said, and waved away the Templar that was obviously making ready to join him. To the Templar, he said, "I do not wish to upset the delicate feelings of one of our few remaining Wardens by insinuating that he is insufficient, Ser Draque. Thank you for your concern."

The Templar frowned, but backed off, bowing curtly and with little respect. "As you wish, Ser." It was not a polite phrase, regardless of the surface meaning of the words.

Alistair left, feeling as if something had just happened that was outside of his understanding. He looked at Wynne and found her looking grave and unhappy.


	63. Part 61

**Part 61:**

The sound of Alistair and Wynne returning did wonders to ease her tension. They had been much faster than she'd expected!

She left the mending she'd been doing sitting on the stone as she rushed back to camp. But then she stopped dead in her tracks, her heart plummeting.

They had come for her.

They looked up and saw her. "Mira!" First Enchanter Irving said, his voice surprisingly sounding happy.

Taking a deep breath, she decided in that moment that she would face her death with dignity. For whatever reason, Knight-Commander Greagoir had come to do the deed himself. She supposed it was an honor of a sort.

Straightening up to her full height—which made her still very short—she marched forward.

"I will not fight you," she told them. She swallowed hard. She didn't want to die. She looked at Alistair, and wanted to die even less. So she looked back at Greagoir.

They were all looking at her oddly.

"And why would you want to?" Irving asked her, crossing his arms. He looked at Greagoir, who shrugged.

"You haven't come to kill me?" she asked.

They all stared at her. "Whatever would we do that for?" Irving asked her.

She blinked at him, then looked at Wynne helplessly. "I… I ran away. I'm an Apostate."

"Oh, that's how it is, eh?" Irving said. "Child, you cannot be a Warden and an Apostate, too. Wynne sent us word some time ago that you were a Warden now."

"I…." She couldn't believe it. "I… what?" Her heart was pounding and the blood was roaring in her ears. "Are you sure?" She felt faint.

"No one told you?" Irving asked her.

"No," she said, though she had to clear her throat and say it again, louder. "No."

"Alistair!" Greagoir admonished, flashing the ex Templar a dark look.

"What, I didn't conscript her!" he protested.

"I think I know what happened," Leliana said. "In Orlais, it is common knowledge that a Mage, once conscripted to the Wardens, cannot ever again be considered an Apostate. In fact, there are tales of Mages who have escaped and gone to the Warden Barracks.

"If they are not conscripted, they are simply returned to the Circle. It's quite a badge of honor for a mage to have escaped the tower to reach the Wardens. Even if he or she is not conscripted. And it's considered a very black mark on the Templars who are on duty at the time the mage escaped," she explained.

"So it's such common knowledge that Riordan wouldn't have thought he had to tell her," Wynne said. "Oh, Mira, no wonder you didn't want to come back here! I'm so sorry. I had no idea what you were going through." The older woman pulled her close and hugged her snuggly.

Mira thought she might faint with relief. She really, really hadn't wanted to die!


	64. Part 62

**Part 62:**

"We must get to the reason we are here, Mira," Irving told her. "You must tell us about your experience with the collar.

"And you must tell us how to remove it," he added, looking at Leliana and Zevran. "I don't know how much time we have, so we must begin with that. Greagoir will discuss the other reason we are here with Alistair and Wynne."

Alistair followed Knight-Commander Greagoir and Wynne, until they were far enough for the two conversations not to be distracting. Greagoir crossed his arms and looked disapprovingly at Alistair while he talked.

"Ferelden seems to be in dire straits," he told them. "The political situation is tense, but it goes beyond that. Nobles who disagree with the King and Anora are being attacked by mages in thrall to these collars."

"What?" Wynne objected. "That's terrible!"

Greagoir shook his head. "It's worse than that. We have reason to believe it's the King himself who is having these collars made. Bann Teagan, Bann Morgan, even Arl Eamon have gone into hiding. They fear for their lives, as they oppose the heavy-handed, even cruel treatment the King has heaped upon the common people so far."

"I wish I could disbelieve you," Alistair said. He had trusted Royce, and Royce had taken in Loghain like he was a dear friend!

"I know that Wardens believe that anything is acceptable if it advances the cause, but are there no limits?" Greagoir was glaring at him like it was all his fault. "Did you never once think to stop him before he stole the throne and started executing people?"

"What?" Alistair was outraged. "Why me? Why didn't you stop him? Why are you dumping this at my feet?"

"You are Maric's only living heir. You had a responsibility, and you ran away from it," Greagoir told him.

"Ser Greagoir, you forget yourself!" Wynne said, her voice sharp and cutting as if speaking to a child.

"King Harrowmont is protecting Arl Eamon," Greagoir told them. "I suggest you go find him, and perhaps you should take responsibility finally, huh?"

Irving approached them, "We should go. We know what we need to remove the collars, and we know the mechanisms by which they work."

At the Circle entrance, Irving said in a low voice. "It's most unfortunate that your companion was not able to give us any more information than anyone else has. Even a bit of usable information would have been helpful. Alas, we must continue our research."

Alistair saw Ser Draque listening intently. A cold, sharp feeling ran though his stomach. Was Draque spying on the Templars and the Circle?

They said their good-byes and returned to the camp.


	65. Part 63

**Part 63:**

Alistair was ranting.

"I don't want to be King. I never wanted to be King. Arl Eamon tried to do that to me before, and I wouldn't do it. How can they ask this of me?" Alistair asked Wynne, his face filled with rage and hurt.

"If you cannot, then you must help Arl Eamon take it," Wynne said. "Things cannot be allowed to stand this way. He is killing people. He is oppressing the working classes. It's getting worse fast."

"Why do I have to? They're the Templars. They're the Circle of Magi. There are two of us left—besides Him," he spat the word 'him' with undisguised venom. "Why are they dumping it all onto us? Arl Eamon has knights. The Chantry has Templars. The Circle of Magi has mages. So why me? Why us?"

"Because you are the symbol that unites them all, Alistair. The Wardens are the symbol, and you are the son of Maric and brother of Caillan," Wynne told him.

"People must have an icon to stand behind, Alistair," Leliana added. "They must see someone or something tangible that they can relate to. Tell them they are fighting for security, a future, for higher wages, or even for freedom, and they'll fight. But show them something they can rally to that represents all of these things, they will fight with their whole hearts.

"Perhaps the Maker has chosen you for this. It's often those who least want Power who are best able to wield it fairly," she told him. "Maybe you were always intended for this moment, because so many will respond to the call of the Wardens."

"But we're not meant for this! We're meant to fight the blight! This is not a blight. Why—"

"Perhaps it's not The Blight," Mira interrupted. "But if people are suffering, and dying, then I would say it is a blight upon this land."

He had turned his glare on her, and she sank back under it. Maybe she shouldn't have said anything. Granted, he hadn't killed her when he found out she was an Apostate… but now he looked fit to remedy that.

"She's got a point," Zevran said. "And a little tip, if you keep looking at her like that, she's likely to run off to my bed tonight, since she doesn't want to get lost in the woods again."

Mira felt her face turn red. Was the elf never serious?

"Have you all turned against me, then?" Alistair asked.

"That's not fair!" Mira yelled at him. "You're just having a tantrum. Stop being so selfish! I followed you to this Tower even though I thought I was going to be killed for it. Wynne has followed you all over the place and not complained even when it was cold and she was hurting. Leliana risked a local Magistrate not knowing the charges against her were dropped. Zevran… Well. He's here, isn't he?"

Then she realized what she had just said and her hand flew to her mouth. She felt mortification set in entirely. "Oh Maker. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that!" She ran back to her mending, ignoring Wynne's call.


	66. Part 64

_I know that a lot of you have mentioned that I update so much that it's hard to keep track of. I know that's kind of a mixed blessing. I would honestly update less often, but I post elsewhere, and they have a word limit (no, seriously... kinda silly). _

_Anyway, I wanted to say again how awesome you guys are that you take your time to state that you enjoy the story. It really means a lot. Knowing people are reading is what makes it worth posting up. Views just don't have the same punch as words. So thanks for your time and willingness to let me know you're out there and I'm not just posting in a vacuum, lol._

**Part 64:**

He took first watch. There was no way he was going to sleep anyway. They hadn't gone far, but he had felt it was best to get a move on. He half feared that Ser Draque had followed them to spy on them.

"Alistair?"

He didn't want to look at her. If he looked at her, he wouldn't be able to stay angry. And then he'd be depressed. He didn't want to be depressed.

"What?"

"I shouldn't have said what I did. I'm so sorry."

"You were right. Don't be sorry for being right. You could have been nicer, but you weren't lying. Like, a lot nicer, really."

"You're right."

He looked at her. He didn't mean to, it just sort of… happened. Her hair was up, like it always was. She looked so much like Anora in the moonlight that he actually felt angrier. Then she stepped closer, and Mira seemed to appear out of the darkness like a vision from the Fade. Anora was gone, and delicate, fragile, tiny Mira stood in her place again.

He looked away. Was he always going to fall apart every time he looked at her? He was a fool.

"I thought you would hate me when you found out I was an Apostate," she told him, her voice barely carrying across to him.

"It wasn't hard to figure out. I knew it almost the whole time," he said. Really, how could she think he'd suspect anything else with the way she was recruited?

"I thought you would kill me. Especially after you found out who I was… who I am related to."

"Now that one. That one upset me. But I was wrong; I was being a hypocrite. Wynne told me that, and she was right. Like you were right today." Alistair walked away and watched his breath steaming in the air. He took a deep breath and puffed it out, watching intently as it formed a cloud and drifted off.

She was coming closer. He could hear her.

"There were so many things that I thought would come between us. And none of them could, unless we let them. But now…"

He turned to look at her. Such beauty. Maybe it was because he was biased, but she was probably the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

"Now there's something real that means we can never be. Something that neither of us can get around, or get past. So, I… Before that time comes, I just wanted to…" she was red-faced and wringing her hands. She looked unsure and scared, and he almost laughed.

She looked like he felt every time she was around.

"Me, too," he told her. Then he kissed her.


	67. Part 65

**Part 65:**

Mira felt weak. She had wanted to tell him she loved him. She wanted to tell him that he meant everything to her. That now that she was going to live, he was her reason for it.

But he kissed her, and she forgot what she was there for. His lips were cold, but then his tongue slipped out and warmed her own. She had often thought of nibbling at that full lower lip; a little scared that he would think her crazy, she took the chance to do it.

He made a soft, low sound and pulled her closer.

Her breath caught in her throat, and then sped up. She felt the cold, but it was a distant thing, chased away by the heat growing in her body. She pressed closer against him, frustrated by plate armor and clothes.

His hands ran down her back, and then he let her go, his breath misting the air between them.

He stepped away and said, "Maker, I don't know how to tell you this."

"Tell me what?"

"You'd think it would be easier, but every time I'm around you, I feel as if my head's about to explode. I can't think straight."

She almost laughed, and made a joke like 'I would never explode your head, Alistair. I'd shoot you in the arse,' but she settled for, "I feel the same way."

"Here's the thing; being near you makes me crazy. But I can't imagine being without you. Not…ever. I don't know how to say this another way. I want to spend the night with you. Here, in the camp."

He looked at her, his eyes seeking hers and holding them captive. The difficulty he was having in asking was perfectly clear, and her heart rolled over in her chest—when it remembered to beat again.

"Maybe this is too fast. Maybe it's inappropriate after Montreux… I don't know. But…"

He looked down, looking a bit lost and scared of what she might say. "I know what I feel."

His eyes met hers in mute appeal. She recognized that he had just given her his heart, as he had taken hers without intending to. Possibly from the moment she first saw him, standing beside her in that clearing and slashing at a Hurlock that was about to come back after her repulsion glyph had just worn off.

She smiled at him. "I thought you'd never ask."

"I wanted to wait for the perfect time, the perfect place. But when will it be perfect? If things were, we wouldn't have even met. We sort of… stumbled into each other. And despite this being the least perfect time, I still found myself falling for you in between all the fighting and everything else. I really don't want to wait anymore."

He went to say something more, and she reached out and shushed him. This time, it was her turn to pull his lips down to hers, but she kept it short, sweet, and purposeful.

He told her that he would meet her at her tent and woke Zevran for the watch. She heard their voices, and was surprised to hear Alistair tell Zevran not to argue for a change.

When he slipped inside her tent, she helped him remove his armor, until he was in the leather breeches and tunic underneath it.


	68. Part 66

_So sorry for the delay. I have been crazy busy in life, and I also downloaded the PC version of DA:O and couldn't figure out the modding process... thanks to user allissacousland for helping me. Everyone who was impatient, send her big 'thank yous' for helping me sort it and get back to writing sooner, lol._

_With no further ado, what you've all been impatient for..._

**Part 66:**

The process of getting undressed was sloppy, difficult, and at times a bit scary. A brazier containing hot embers that glowed in the darkness kept the tent from being frigid… but it also got in the way of attempts to undress two people at once. Sometimes with amusing results.

Alistair found it awkward, uncomfortable, and a bit of a letdown, really. He could barely see in the dark, Mira and he kept getting tangled up together in often painful ways, and the brazier was nearly spilled multiple times, despite the care they were trying to give it.

He even burnt his foot on it and practically yelled at the pain. A poultice took care of it pretty quickly, but they had to go sorting around to find that in the midst of everything!

It wasn't the romantic wooing that he'd hoped for. He knew it wasn't going to be perfect. He had accepted that. But this was ridiculous!

Finally, though, they were undressed and under the covers together. This was a bit more like it!

Except he didn't know what to do. He'd listened, that wasn't the problem. He'd learned little at the Chantry except basic biology and anatomy, but the Wardens had been anything but quiet about their sexual expertise.

The problem was that a lot of what they said didn't really make sense to him. "Rub little circles around it." Around what? And for how long? Did it matter which direction the circle went?

He slipped one leg between hers, and felt her skin begin to warm against his. Well, that was… pleasant. That was, in point of fact, very pleasant. He pulled her against him and kissed her.

That was even more pleasant.

"Mira," he said, pulling back to look down at her, her face only slightly lit in the gloom of the red embers at the other end of the tent. "I… I've never done this before, you know that. I want it to be with you, while we have the chance. In case…"

He took a deep breath. "But I'm not sure what to do. I don't want to hurt you, or to remind you of… anything." He couldn't say the words out loud, couldn't say the name. Couldn't ask the question.

"I haven't, either," she told him.

"Really? You haven't? I was worried that when we were at the castle, you might have…"

"No. Nothing like that happened. And I don't really know what to expect, except that the first time will hurt me."

"Yeah. I know that part, too, and it scares the hell out of me."

"Well, I hear that if you're ready, it doesn't hurt as much. I think touching me first makes it better."

He grinned. "I'll give it my best shot," he told her.


	69. Part 67

**Part 67:**

And he did just that. His leg was between hers, and it felt heavy and hot. It felt right. But when he kissed her, and his hands started to explore her, she felt feelings she'd never felt before.

She had touched herself some. Fearfully, and with a great deal of guilt. The Chantry sisters that came to talk to the mages and save their souls for the Maker had often warned of the evils of self-gratification. So she'd never done much more than touch a bit.

It hadn't been the same at all. His skin against hers, his calloused hands, so hot and large… nothing at all the same about them. Well, he had five fingers on each one, too… but otherwise…

She couldn't stop herself from gasping when his fingers found her nipple. He began to draw slow circles around it, and she ached as her body responded almost without her will. It had taken over, and the sensations it was flooding her with were indescribably delicious.

Then he stopped the circling and started to feel it, exploring it as if noting its shape and size.

"So soft," he whispered to her, kissing her neck with small, smattering kisses. His hand then circled her breast, lifting and shaping it as if testing its weight. Her body arched towards that touch, and she groaned, lost in it. She thought she should be doing something… but she didn't know what.

So she just accepted his touch, and reveled in it.

He slipped his hand down her body, fingers splayed across her belly. He pulled her hips closer to him and pressed against her. She felt him prodding against her, hot and hard and thrilling.

His hand slid down into her curls, and began to explore. He pulled away from the deep kiss they were sharing and looked at her as his fingers began to explore. To her surprise, this was even more fascinating and sensitive than her breasts.

Her body seemed almost to have a mind of its own as it arched and twitched in reply to his touch. Her eyes fell shut and her head pressed back as her body pressed up, yearning towards his touch.

She felt a steady pressure begin to build in her. It was familiar, but it seemed to just continue, growing steadily more urgent.

She wanted… something. Some intangible, elusive something that felt closer with every passing moment. Most of her sexual knowledge came from the Chantry, or from overhearing other mages.

She didn't know what was going on, but she knew it was steadily growing as his fingers began to slide into her and circle around. Her fingers wrapped around his arm and she found herself nearly climbing him as the frenzied feeling increased.

Then it happened. She felt a wave of pleasure so powerful that it pulled her double, her body jerking against him involuntarily as the pleasure radiated out from the location of his fingers.

"Oh!" It was all she could say. Over and over again for several long seconds.

She looked up to find him grinning at her. She smiled, a surprised, pleased smile.


	70. Part 68

**Part 68:**

He was thrilled; he'd managed to make her orgasm. And it was incredible. When she threw her head back and panted, he almost lost control of himself. Her beautiful eyes staring into his with surprise and wonder was a whole new sort of magic.

He let her calm down a bit by kissing her again. Then he slid between her legs, after some fumbling, finding that them up around his waist seemed to be most comfortable for them both. He reminded himself that if any guy ever asked him for advice, he'd be a little more technical.

Then he tried to find the right place to enter her. A simple concept, but far harder in the actual doing. She was slippery and he found himself sliding all over the place.

And, he had a lot of discomfort over the whole thing. It was her first time, too… it was going to hurt. But when was it going to hurt? He prodded at a likely spot and she shook her head.

"No?" he asked. It felt pretty likely…

She shook her head and pushed him up a bit. Her hand slid between them, and he gasped when she grasped his penis. She shifted him, and he felt her body open to him. She gasped and he looked up at her.

It was a look of pleasure, not pain, and he pushed further inside. But as he watched, the look changed, and he met resistance so strong that he thought to ask her if she'd put him in the wrong place.

But he could hardly ask her that, especially with heat and wet and tightness around him that was making him absolutely crazy.

"Just go fast," she panted, her face screwed up in pain.

"Are you sure?"

"I hear it hurts less and is over faster," she told him with a wan, encouraging smile.

So he pulled out a little and shoved hard. She bit her lip and her face went white, and he felt something tear.

This was harder than he'd ever imagined. His desire to comfort her warred with an increasing need to move.

She smiled tremulously, "It's okay. Go ahead."

So he did, moving swiftly and with an eagerness that he could no longer contain. He was encased in heat, her body soft but tight around him. He fought his body and its urges. He was supposed to go slow and take a long time to please her…

But it was clear from the look on her face that it wasn't anything near as pleasant for her as for him. His heart broke at the unfairness of it, and he focused on finishing quickly.

When he did, he found himself repeating her earlier statement: "Oh!"

It was amazing, and he realized that his orgasm had never been that fantastic. He slid out of her and slumped forward.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't want to hurt you," he told her.

"I know. I enjoyed it, Alistair. I truly did. Just you know, when it didn't hurt."

He pulled her close to him for a few minutes, kissing her again and running his hands over her body, so soft and smooth and different.

He moved to get up, and she pulled him back, "Where are you going?"

"I'm just getting a cloth so we can clean up the blood," he told her.

She went white and stared at him in horror.

"What? What's wrong?"

"I made you dirty," she said softly.

Perplexed, he told her, "Well, of course. Sex is a messy business. That's part of the fun, isn't it?"

She tried to smile but failed. "I guess so," she said, a tear falling.

He would never understand women. Even if he weren't going to die early, he'd still never, ever understand them. Of that much, he was certain.


	71. Part 69

**Part 69:**

He looked at her like she'd lost her mind. Maybe she had. It had been so painful and unpleasant and then she realized she'd made him dirty. The Sisters had told her that sex was dirty. That it was unpleasant and that if she enticed a man, she would make him dirty, too…

And now she had.

He slipped out of the bedroll and she heard sloshing as he wet a cloth from a canteen. He gasped sharply, then came back into the bed a moment or two later, his body cold and slightly wet against her.

"I'm going to clean you up. It'll be cold, though…"

She nodded silently, bracing herself.

It was definitely cold, he wasn't kidding. But as he washed her, she felt that strange lassitude spreading over her. She forgot about being dirty, and she forgot about being naked and she forgot about the Sisters.

He looked at her as a moan escaped her, and his eyebrow rose. She smiled and shrugged. "It doesn't hurt now," she told him.

He smiled and tossed the cloth near the brazier. "I'll be back."

He slipped over and put more coals on the brazier, and then he was back again, his body cold again already. She wrapped around him and pulled him down for a kiss.

How strange that, despite the pain and misery of it, her body seemed to be already wanting to do it again. She could live with that awful second half, she decided, if she could have the first part. He was worth it, and so was the pleasure of that first experience.

They fell quiet as they heard Zevan waking Leliana for her watch, grinning at each other as she tried to be quiet as Alistair made her squirm and arch with his fingers, seeking and searching and delving inside of her.

By the time they heard Leliana crunching away into the darkness, he was kissing her to keep her quiet. He pulled back and grinned at her again, a triumphant sort of smirk.

It was wicked. It was wonderful.

Soon, she found herself giving in to the feelings that were driving through her as his fingers made circles again around her most sensitive spot. He flicked it, his finger moving faster and faster.

She once again crested that threshold of pleasure, riding it like a sailing ship on the horizon.

He kissed her and pulled her against him, snuggling down as if to go to sleep. She felt his penis prodding against her, and knew that wasn't fair.

"You, too," she told him. Then realized it was a silly statement. When he smiled and shook his head and told her it was okay, she replied, "I want to. I want you to feel good, too."

"I did," he told her, but she insisted.

When he didn't give in, she pushed him over and straddled him.

"Are you going to rape me?" he asked her facetiously.

"If I have to," she said. "I want to see you feel good, too."


	72. Part 70

**Part 70:**

He was a little surprised and maybe even taken aback by her sudden assertiveness. But he also understood to some degree. She was a kind, good person. Two things he liked a lot about her. She wouldn't take pleasure from him and not give back. That was her nature, and it was something he admired in her.

So he didn't press the issue, simply watching her as she sat above him, her nipples hard in the cold air. Fascinated, he reached out and touched them. Every time he saw that happen through her bodice, he had wanted to do it… and now he could.

He rather liked her sitting on top of him this way, despite the cool air. He kneaded the soft tissue of her breasts, loving the feel, the weight, the contrast.

She succeeded in slipping him inside of her. This time, he nested in her completely with no resistance, and he looked up to find her looking at him in surprise. She moved on him, and he groaned. She was so hot, so tight, encasing him entirely.

She began to slide up and down, and he thought he was going to lose it instantly.

She was smiling at him.

"What?"

"It doesn't hurt. Well, a little bit. But… mostly it doesn't hurt." Her smile was sly, nearly a smirk.

It sure didn't hurt him, either. "Good. I hate the idea of hurting you," he told her, the last ending on a gasp as she moved again and stroked his penis with her beautiful body.

She slowly picked up the pace, as if experimenting or trying to figure out what felt best. She shifted her legs and hips a few times until she was sliding freely on him.

This was bliss. Without the knowledge that he was hurting her, he was able to relax and really enjoy being with her.

As her pace quickened, he realized she was getting close to another orgasm. He reached down to slip his finger between their bodies, flicking it on that spot he'd found that she reacted to best—he could only assume it was her clitoris, from his anatomical lessons.

Her head dropped back, and he thought idly that next time, he wanted to see her with her hair down.

But he forgot all about that as her body suddenly gripped him, and she arched forward, gasping and panting.

He grasped her by the hips and pulled her tighter against his body as he lost control from the powerful gripping of his penis by her body. He bucked up into her as he found his release inside her welcoming, gripping body. Waves of pleasure rushed through him, even better than the first time.

She dropped forward onto his chest, and he pulled the blanket up over her. "That was amazing," she whispered.

"We should get some sleep," he told her softly.

She slipped off of him, and they cleaned up a bit, finding that even without the blood, it was messy business…

Then he curled up around her, spooning her with his body. Leaning on his arm, he kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you for saying 'yes,' Mira." He saw her smile, though she said nothing, simply squeezing his arm in acknowledgement.

Precious, beautiful woman. He was lucky. She might be a little odd, and she might be more skittish than a colt…but she was a good, decent person. She was strong and she was faithful and she was… in his arms.

He snuggled against her and went to sleep.


	73. Part 71

_Merry Christmas! (Posted Christmas 2010) I just got back from the in-laws' house for a wonderful Christmas celebration. I hope that yours was wonderful as well. Wishing everyone beauty and joy this Holiday season._

_Thanks to those who are reading still, and who have commented and favorited! _

_'Wolf, I know wombats don't chatter. That's why it's funny... like "sweating like a hog in August." Hogs don't sweat, but the saying is still funny. Maybe it's only funny in my own mind, I dunno, lol. Anyway. I know some chapters are very short. But I have to do that because another place I post has limited space allowance for posting. Hopefully you can get past it okay._

**Part 71: **

They returned to inform Chevalier Fontaine that they would be forced to deal with issues within Ferelden. They promised to inform him of anything that they discovered regarding the collars while they were searching.

As they were departing, Mira stopped him. "Chevalier Fontaine?"

"Yes, Lady?" he asked her, turning back and pulling his helm off. He held it under his arm as he stood looking at her expectantly.

"Do you think the Darkspawn outbreak could have anything to do with this? Hasn't there been an unusual amount of action from them here?"

He stood quietly, obviously pondering the question. "I am unsure at this time, Lady. I will consider the issue as we investigate both of these troubles."

"Thank you, Chevalier Fontaine. These issues may ultimately affect everyone. I would hope that neither of us will allow lines on a map to prevent us from settling this. They are dangers to us all."

"Your words are true, Lady. If only the exalted of our lands would understand it as well as you do." He clapped his helm back on his head and trotted to catch up to his men.

The rest of them turned towards Orzammar.

Wynne walked beside Mira. "Politics rarely work out that way," she said with heavy sadness.

"I know. But as a Warden, I think I must put the welfare of the Races ahead of any boundaries that we attempt to impose upon each other."

"Including morality? That's how Royce felt, and I fear that it hasn't worked out so well for Ferelden so far."

"Morality is a different issue. I don't believe that is something we attempt to impose upon each other, but is something that arises naturally from within us. When we disconnect from that natural source is when problems arise and morality becomes clouded."

"Those may be wise words… or utter foolishness," Wynne said shrewdly.

"What do we have to fear from Darkspawn or demons, when we have our own kind to bring us suffering, death, and grief?" Mira asked her. "And what use for Wardens, if we will destroy what it is we seek to save?"

"We do whatever it takes to keep the world safe, Mira," Alistair told her, though he looked troubled.

"From what I understand, this is what this Royce of yours says. But is it truly what you believe, Alistair? If you believed that as fully as he did, you would simply have killed me. I was a danger, but you saved me. Why?" She had to know. She needed to be certain that it wasn't simply infatuation that made him save her.

She prayed to the Maker for the first time since she could remember… asking him to let this man be the man she thought he was, and not the man she feared he might be.


	74. Part 72

**Part 72:**

Alistair didn't know how to answer Mira. He knew what he was supposed to say, as a Warden. He knew that they were to use anything at their disposal to defeat the Darkspawn. That sometimes you had to knuckle down and do whatever it took…

But he also knew that if he'd learned anything from Royce, it was that some things did cross the line for him. That he did have a moral code and he couldn't compromise it.

"I saved you because I believed in the good in you, and I think there's more than one way to protect the world. If there's a way that doesn't require that I comprise what I believe is right, I'll take that way. But the Darkspawn have to be defeated. We have to drive them back. The demons are the same."

He didn't look at her as he talked. He had to tell her the truth about the Wardens. "But we're Gray Wardens. We're to use anything we can to defeat the Darkspawn. We have to take allies where we find them." He took a deep breath, "Personally speaking, I don't believe we ever have to choose one evil over another. We can drive them all back. We will."

Then he did look at her, hoping to express to her that he didn't think that 'anything goes' like Royce did. He was supposed to feel that way, but he didn't. He'd probably feel it more as the taint claimed him…but like so many before him, he'd die before he gave in to it.

She looked back at him solemnly from the other side of Wynne. Then she smiled, a slow, soft, vulnerable smile. "I agree," she said, and looked away.

Wynne then told her all that had occurred, including the fact that Alistair would most likely have to become King, in order to prevent the spreading evil of Royce's reign. He watched her grow more and more quiet, and he could tell when she recognized what it meant for the two of them.

Her eyes met his with sad, infinite understanding. His gut twisted. She knew they couldn't be together after that. She knew what would happen to them.

She said nothing, and continued to listen attentively to Wynne. She asked questions, and Alistair found himself listening to her with increasing interest. Her questions were highly incisive, often bringing up things he himself hadn't thought of.

Who would support him and why? What armies were at his disposal? How long would it take to assemble them without arousing suspicion?

He began to appreciate the fact that she was, indeed, the child of Loghain. Her questions were tactical, political, and all things that he hadn't thought of. How was he going to raise an army if people were afraid of their King?

She questioned Wynne late into the day as they walked. In a moment of honesty, he recognized what a dreadful King he was going to be. He was bored out of his mind by the conversation after only an hour or two.

But Mira went from Wynne straight over to Leliana. She began to question her in the same manner. Questions about politics and law in Orlais had him yawning by late afternoon.

That night, they went to bed. When they had completed the first order of the night—making love—he asked her about it.

"Why were you asking all of those questions? I almost fell asleep after the first hour. Don't you find politics boring?"

Her hand ran down his chest, and she wrapped a leg around him and pulled him close. "If I'm going to help you succeed, then I need to know everything I can learn," she told him.

"If I succeed, we can't be together," Alistair told her.

"I know," she said softly. "But I also know that you love me, and I love you, and that somehow, we'll find a way together to save this land from Royce and from whatever other evil it is that stalks us all from the Fade. We will lose each other, but we'll have this time for the rest of our lives. We'll be together again when it's all done."

He almost cried. "In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice." He sighed.

"So it will be victory," she told him.

"And sacrifice," he added softly, before kissing her and burying his face in her neck.


	75. Part 73

**Part 73:**

Mira's feelings were mixed. She believed in Alistair, and would support him as King. She had wanted to be sure that she wasn't supporting someone who truly felt that "anything goes" so long as it would further the Gray Wardens' cause.

Although she was a Gray Warden, there were lines she wouldn't cross, and she wouldn't simply trade one dictator for another in the name of "whatever it takes" to destroy the Darkspawn.

But on the other hand, she knew that she was doing the same thing to some degree—she was accepting the idea that she would have to give up everything she'd ever had in order to prevent the terror and chaos that Royce was bringing.

They had to protect that which they were protecting.

So they traveled onwards towards Orzammar. They arrived amid flurries of snow that swirled and shuffled around them like falling cards.

"Whatcha want?" the gruff dwarf at the entrance asked. His belligerence was obvious.

"We're seein' King Harrowmont," Oghren told him gruffly, "an' ye don't wanna be gettin' in our way."

"Do ye think I'm stupid?" asked the guard. "I kin see who ye're with. Them what was with that Warden what has set himself up as King an' who's been forcin' illegal laws on the humans and the elfs. They's his trusted companions, we ain't forgot that."

"Why you thunderhumpin' bronto-arsed surface rat—" Oghren began.

"Many of us made the mistake of trusting Royce," Wynne cut him off, pressing her hand to his shoulder to silence him. "Even King Harrowmont thought Royce was worthy of his trust, did he not? Surely if you can forgive King Harrowmont for his oversight, you can allow us the opportunity to prove to him that we recognize that we were in error in trusting the Warden?"

The gruff guard stared at her for a bit, his mind clearly working hard.

"We have heard rumors of a possible uprising," Mira told him. "There is another candidate for the throne, and perhaps the time is right to strike—while the iron is hot."

"Talkin' of candidates for the throne be treasonous, girl," the dwarf told her, scowling.

"Indeed. And of course, we should not have come here seeking allies in such an endeavor," Mira said in return. "We should not involve the dwarves in such things, anyway, for we have need of allies of courage and stalwart character."

"What're ye sayin?" the guard yelled. "Ye insinuatin' what we ain't got courage to stand against that rat?"

Mira crossed her arms. "We truly don't wish to frighten you, and if King Harrowmont is afraid to see but a mere handful of people, then naturally anything on the level of which we speak would surely be terrifying to him."

She turned to her companions. "Come, let us go. We will find no help here, the dwarves are afraid of Royce like so many others are."

They were all staring at her as if she'd lost her mind.

"Why are you antagonizing them?" Wynne asked, outraged.

Mira shrugged. "They are no help to us in this fearful—"

"Now, see here! We ain't scared! It' just ain't smart ta be lettin' any ol' anybody in here! How do I know ye ain't spies?" the guard spluttered.

"You don't," Mira told him. "But Arl Eamon will know."

"Don't know nothin' bout no Arl Eamon," the dwarf said, "but I'll take ye to Harrowmont. He kin decide what ta make of ye." He stomped inside and they followed, the others looking at her oddly.

Oghren openly glared at her in anger. "That were a dirty trick," he said to her as they went inside.

"And calling him a 'surface rat' wasn't?" she asked.

He grunted, but turned red.


	76. Part 74

**Part 74:**

There were times when he simply couldn't understand Mira. She openly antagonized the very people that he needed most right at the moment. Granted, it had gotten them in the door, but what after that?

He dreaded what she might say to King Harrowmont. Was she going to tell him that the was a coward, too? He considered asking Wynne to take her elsewhere, but he needed Wynne with him—he certainly wasn't a politically minded person.

They followed the grumbling Guard into the King's quarters.

"Alistair!" Harrowmont greeted him, surprising him with a boisterous and even joyful slap on the back. "We'd hoped you'd find your way here!" He walked over to the door and bellowed down the hallway.

There was the clamor of a guard trotting off down the hallway, and Harrowmont turned back to Alistair. "There is much to tell you," he exclaimed, gesturing for them to sit down.

"I must confess," Wynne said, "I'm surprised by your greeting, Your Majesty. We had difficulties getting past the Guard."

"Call me 'Harrowmont'," he told them. "What difficulties would you be talking about?"

Wynne explained, keeping it short and downplaying what Mira had said. Alistair was relieved to find that Wynne agreed with his discomfort with the way things had transpired at the front doors.

"You said that?" Harrowmont asked Mira.

"Indeed, Your Majesty," she said with a rather red-faced incline of the head.

He barked with laughter. "You've got cheek, ye have, lass! Though I'll have to talk to them 'bout being that easily goaded. But you done good work, I say."

"Arl Eamon, welcome!" he turned to greet the tall human as he walked in the door. "We've guests I thought you might like to see."

"Alistair!" the Arl greeted the younger man with obvious relief and even happiness. "We feared we might never find you. Where did you wander off to?"

"Orlais," Alistair said shortly. "We had some business there." He walked over and stood behind Mira, his hand on her shoulder.

"Come," Harrowmont said, "let us dine. There will be time to discuss all of this later."

They went to his dining hall and ate. To his consternation, Alistair found Mira quizzing Arl Eamon on the current political situation. Didn't she ever give it a rest? How could anyone be so fascinated by politics?

Plus, he felt a bit ignored, sitting beside her and listening vaguely to her endless questions.

He was surprised to find Arl Eamon eagerly answering her questions, supplying her every probing with open answers. Did everyone simply adore politics beside him? And they wanted to make him King? Depressing thought, that.


	77. Part 75

**Part 75:**

Mira needed to know everything. She had studied the politics of Ferelden during her incarceration at the tower, but it was ancient politics. She needed to know what the current situation was, and the Arl was fully informed.

And informative. She was beginning to get a picture of what had to happen, and why. It was a very bleak picture.

She had a deep fear of what was on the wind. The people were grateful for the ending of the blight, but there was a problem, and Mira needed to go out and talk to some common people. She had to know if her fears were correct.

Arl Eamon had touched on the concept, but only slightly. Mira felt that if it was reaching the ears of the nobles, it was much more dire than she had imagined.

As the dinner drew to a close, Eamon stated that they should discuss the current situation and the possibilities.

"We must come to a decision regarding what we're going to do, though it's clear that Alistair must take the throne," the Arl said.

"I disagree," Mira said. "We don't have enough information yet."

There were protests around the room. Alistair was looking at her like she was a stranger. Her heart constricted and she felt the same terror she always did when she was the center of attention.

She clenched and unclenched her hands. "Please. Give me a few days."

"But there are things that you don't know," King Harrowmont interjected.

"I know," she said. "That's what I'd like to remedy.

"It has to be Alistair," Arl Eamon argued.

"I'm telling you, they're not going to rally to another Warden," King Harrowmont argued.

"I fear His Majesty may be right," Mira said. "I must do some more research. Give me a couple of days, please? I will do some traveling and learn what I can, and return by the end of the week."

"And who are you?" Arl Eamon asked. "Why do we need concern ourselves with your research? We do not need counsel from Mages. This discussion is for nobles and those who know enough about politics to make such decisions. You have been allowed to stay here through sheer indulgence as Alistair's traveling companion, and nothing more."

Abject humiliation and fear boiled through her. This was one of the very things she most feared about speaking up in front of others. Being humiliated, stripped down to her proverbial smallclothes right in front of everyone.

But the worst part was that he was right. She was nobody. She wasn't important. She never had been, and never would be.

"I would wish to hear what she has to say," Wynne interjected.

Arl Eamon rounded on her then, "And who, pray tell, are you? The issues of governance should be left to those qualified to decide it, and not dallied in by laypersons."

Mira wanted to die. Now she had inadvertently drawn Wynne into it.

Anger and hurt swelled inside her. "If you will not accept wise counsel simply because of its source, then you are no better than Royce, and deserve to fail," she said to Arl Eamon. "If you will excuse me, I will go and prepare for my journey. When I return, I will have counsel for you, if you have grown up enough to hear it by then."

She walked out, struggling to maintain her dignity and not break down into weeping in front of them all. She ignored the Arl's outraged gasp as she closed the door behind her.


	78. Part 76

**Part 76:**

Alistair felt adrift. He couldn't believe what had just happened. He couldn't believe the Arl had spoken like that to Mira. He couldn't believe Mira had reacted with such dignity and had actually put the Arl in his place! She constantly surprised him with her immense inner fortitude, even in situations he had come to realize were nearly paralyzingly frightening to her.

"You know, that's something that the Wardens got right," he said into the argument that had arisen around him. "Take allies where they are offered. Spitting on intelligent, educated people because they are mages, or aren't noble isn't something I'll practice, even if I become King. And I certainly won't be spitting in my friends' faces like you just did."

Everyone in the room looked at him like they didn't know him. He didn't care. He had always admired Arl Eamon, but this was going too far. He remembered what Mira said about him having shuffled Alistair off to the Chantry at Lady Isolde's demand, "That's a terrible thing to do to a child."

She had thought his anger at Arl Eamon to be justified, and reminded him that he was young and hurt by the man he'd come to see as a father figure abandoning him.

He felt the weight of the crown, as if from a distance, settle onto his shoulders. He would soon have to abandon her as a lover, but he would never abandon her as friend and advisor. He wouldn't discard her as a person, whatever came about. Arl Eamon had taught him that.

He asked directions from one of the loitering nobles, who pointed vaguely and then ignored him. He followed the vague directions, wandering for what felt like hours and knocking on empty doors.

"Mira?" he asked, knocking on another heavy wooden door, grateful for the metal gauntlets that protected his hands. He was running low on doors finally.

The door opened and she stood in front of him. "I'm sorry, Mira. He was wrong."

She stepped away from him, and back into the room. Her eyes were red, and her shoulders stooped.

"No, Alistair, he was right. I'm no one. I'm an apostate-turned-Warden who doesn't know a thing about being a Warden, never wanted to be a mage, and is dead to all of society." She took a deep breath that ended on a suppressed sob.

"Not to me," he told her. "Never will you be anything of the sort to me. You're my friend, my lover, my advisor. You're the strongest person I know. And you showed up in my life and brought me back from the brink of a very dark, very dangerous place. I was sinking fast and I didn't even know it.

"Maybe that's not saving the world like Royce did, but it matters to me. You changed everything for me."

"It was you that saved me," she said. "From the Darkspawn, and then from Montreux."

He pulled her back against him, wrapping his arms around her and letting his cheek rest against the top of her head. "Well, saving you saved me," he told her, not knowing what else to say. "So we saved each other, and that's what love is all about."

"I'm going to go speak to people. I need to find out what they are thinking, what they believe. Even if it doesn't matter to Arl Eamon, it's still important," she told him, her voice strained. "It matters to the Gray Wardens, no matter what comes of the kingdom."

A cold chill ran down his spine. Something in her tone made his blood run cold and his heart stutter. He turned her to face him. "It's this important to you?"

She nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. "It's that important to all the Wardens of Ferelden, I think," she told him. "In deciding I would be a Ferelden Warden, they've been made as much my responsibility as yours. And since you must focus on becoming King, and Royce is King… it falls to me to prioritize Gray Warden affairs."

There was too much on her slender, frail shoulders, he thought. She'd been through so much, and now… there was only more to come.

"Promise me that you'll take the others with you," he asked her.

"I will," she promised. "And the Dire Bear is with me. I feel him constantly now. I think I could call him up anytime now."

He pulled her close and kissed her then. To him, it felt like a benediction, an affirmation of his love and his promise that he would find a way to have her in his life, no matter what happened.

To her, it felt like good-bye.


	79. Part 77

**Part 77:**

Mira spent several hours speaking with the Shaper, before she left Orzammar. The others went with her, though Leliana stayed with Alistair. She promised to report everything she saw to Mira when they met again, and to learn as much as she could about the situation amongst the nobles.

It was, after all, one of her many capabilities.

But Mira knew she was sad to have to go back to that sort of life. She felt for her, but Leliana, like Mira, had little choice. Ferelden was on the cutting edge of catastrophe. Everyone would have to buck up and do what it took to pull it back.

So Mira marched off into the gathering shadows, a cloak pulled around her. She looked back at Alistair, standing forlornly at the top of the steps. He didn't look very kingly at the moment. He looked like a lost little boy, and her heart ached for the man who had lost so much, and would lose so much more before it was over.

"You miss him already," Wynne told her, not a question.

Mira straightened up and walked away. She gave Wynne a half smile, acknowledging the fact. They walked away and into the gloom of the early evening, which came quickly in this high land.

"I do, too," she said softly. Mira gripped her hand, a momentary touch of two women in solidarity about the man they were leaving behind. One as a lover, one as the closest thing he'd had to a mother since his own died.

They traveled for weeks, moving towards Denerim, stopping along the way at homesteads and Banns. Often Mira had to go in alone and hide her status as a Gray Warden. The others were known, and had become hunted in some areas.

It was surprisingly enough, Oghren whose abilities eased their passing and made them welcome at various homesteads. While Oghren used what he'd learned from Branka to patch wagons or repair items, grumbling and drunk the whole time, Mira or Wynne would woo them into speaking of their troubles and their opinions of the political situation.

The further they went, the bleaker it all became. The Wardens had fallen into severe disfavor amongst the common people. Many often even stated that the price of the Blight being ended was too high. That the land would waste away and the people starve, thanks to trusting the Gray Wardens.

Mira quickly began to subtly plant the idea that it wasn't the Gray Wardens, but was only Royce. Then, when they first began to encounter that idea, she began to insinuate that perhaps, just as he had betrayed the nation, he had also betrayed the Gray Wardens.

More and more, they began to encounter the results of her work. People were beginning to spread the idea… this belief that Royce had betrayed the Gray Wardens. When that happened, Mira began to add in the idea that not only had he betrayed the Gray Wardens, but that perhaps he had been in cohoots with Loghain all along. Perhaps that was why he let Loghain live.

And maybe, just maybe… the Gray Wardens would find a way to make it right.

Where they encountered whispers of the "usurper" and the fact that there were rumors that Alistair had been found, she casual let drop the fact that Alistair was a Gray Warden. Perhaps he had indeed not only been found, but perhaps he was preparing to right the wrong done to Ferelden and to the Gray Wardens.


	80. Part 78

**Part 78:**

Alistair held his head in his hands. Arl Eamon had continued to harangue him about getting married. He felt that Alistair would make a much more suitable candidate and would be more likely followed if he took a noblewoman to wife.

Furthermore, as dignitaries streamed in from various places to make demands in exchange for their support, his temper grew increasingly short. Arl Eamon continued to press him, and now he sat at a conference filled with people who obviously all wanted things for themselves and for their particular group, with little interest in actually protecting Ferelden.

He wished, for maybe the millionth time, that Mira was here. Somehow, he knew she'd be able to tell him how to handle this. She'd work it out in some way.

"I will make no concessions. You will all either join together to combat the threat to Ferelden, or you will leave. I'm weary of the politics. You are all obviously happy with Royce's rule. Rather than coming here to unite against a common foe, you came to bicker like children and fight over any scrap I may throw once I am King.

"I will tell you this right now. I will not haggle over the future of Ferelden. If I must go alone and die trying, I will battle for the people of this land. For all of you. Not for whether or not you get to seed your land for hay or for corn this year, but whether or not you get to seed your land for anything—ever again.

"I'm tired of this. I've listened you all fight over petty disagreements like whose Bann will get to sit closest to me. Really? This is the kind of idiocy I must oversee? I'm a simple man. I want something simple for Ferelden. I want there to be a tomorrow for all of you, and for your wives and your children and your grandchildren's children.

"You scrap like enraged brontos over which tenants you will buy away from the other, while the tenants you are arguing over die in their homes, starving and shivering. I am, frankly, disgusted.

"You all want me to lead you, but you will promise to follow me only if I cater to petty issues while children are taken in chains to Denerim to work for coppers in Royce's war factories. I will concede nothing, for I have nothing. I own what you see here, and come the day that I either sit on the throne or my head rolls across the room for you to gape at, that is all I will own.

"Now, make your decision by nightfall and then go home. Follow me or do not do so. I am not here for you to curry favors from, I am here to save the starving, the hungry, and the oppressed. I am here to free you from tyranny, not become a tyrant myself by offering up things I don't even have authority over yet."

He threw his gauntlet on the table, a symbolic gesture amongst Templars. "I am done with you all. Follow me or don't, as it pleases you. I am too busy saving your fields to bicker over what you plant in them."


	81. Part 79

**Part 79:**

Leliana caught up with Mira outside of Denerim, and told her what had happened. The Mages would help, but the Chantry commanded the Templars remain neutral. Many of the Banns were behind him, but the Teyrns were not, and they commanded much stronger armies.

The Elves and the Dwarves were with them, but Arl Eamon's own army had been severely taxed in the war against the Blight. They would have little to offer.

Mira told Leliana of the increasing incidents of Darkspawn incursions, much clustered surprisingly around Denerim. Furthermore, there were a fair amount of unprecedented demon and blood mage attacks. Often random and without any pattern that she could ascertain at the time.

Leliana waited while Mira entered Denerim, the group anxious and wary. It wasn't widely known that Mira was a Gray Warden, but if she encountered Royce, he would likely know it. She had a cover story should it happen, but they were all anxious and distressed.

She returned that evening, distressed, wan, and anxious. Denerim was on lockdown to a large degree. People had been terse and miserable. What discussion had taken place hadn't been good.

A large army was taking from within Fort Drakon. None would speak of it, but it was clear that the army was of an unusual and even sinister nature. There was a great deal of fear around it, and people were reticent to even discuss it, becoming immediately wary and withdrawing.

"I fear it may be worse than we suspected. Something is terribly wrong here, and I don't know what to do about it," Mira said. "I do know that, if the numbers are anything like what a few indicated, what we have will be nowhere near enough."

"What can we do?" Leliana despaired.

"Kiss yer arse good-bye," Oghren said. "It's been a good run, but no one's meant to win them all, eh?"

"We'll go to Orlais," Mira said. "It's many weeks, and I worry what will happen here, but it's our only hope for enough aid to make this happen."

"If we get aid from Orlais, the people will think we are being invaded," Wynne warned.

"We have no choices," Mira said.

"Ye know, if you say it's true," Oghren grunted, "I believe ye're right. Ye've got a way about ya that convinces me."

"Indeed. If you hadn't taken up with that drunken Templar, I would have carried you off, myself," Zevran told her with a sweeping bow.

"Enough flattery, we must go to Orzammar immediately," Mira said, but she blushed and smiled, appreciative of their kind praise.


	82. Part 80

**Part 80:**

Alistair's mood was black as he walked towards his quarters. He missed Mira, and he hated the constant arguments in which Arl Eamon condescended to him. Lady Isolde had begun to attend these political sessions, as well, and he was reduced to being a ten-year-old boy, desperate for any affection and getting less than none.

He hated the feeling. He hated this. He wanted to escape. He wanted to get out of there. He wanted a drink. But he dared not do it, because he knew what madness would come over him, and he thought he would probably tell Lady Isolde, "I want to get my sword out right now and run you through, and the only reason I don't is because I still love Arl Eamon like a father."

So instead he marched off to his quarters, hoping the maid would have delivered some breakfast. It was, he thought, rather nice to have servants. Especially since he no longer had time to do anything at all for himself.

"Ser Theirin?" the diffident young dwarf said, stopping in front of him and blinking at him.

"Yes?" he asked, striving for a neutral tone, rather than the anger that was boiling up inside of him.

"The lady mage has returned, Ser. She is most likely passing through the front bulkhead hatch even now."

Alistair still found the ship-like reference to the front gates to be strange, but at least now he knew what they were talking about. "Thanks!" he said, and turned around and unabashedly started trotting for the front gate.

Everything else was forgotten. Mira was back. The closer he got, the faster he went. When he finally saw her, drowning in a sea of furs and dusted with white, he was breathless and filled with impatience.

"Mira!" he picked up his pace yet again, then stopped, trying to regain a bit of 'kingly dignity.'

She turned and saw him, and her face lit up like the first kiss of the sun rising over the horizon, bringing warmth and light to the whole land. His throat tightened and his heart felt too big.

She left the group she was with and started towards him, bringing that inner light with her. She didn't strive for dignity at all, just picked up her skirts and ran towards him. He grinned and grabbed her, sweeping her off of her feet and into his arms.

She was cold, and smelled of the outdoors. Of snow and wind and travel. Snow melted on him and he didn't care, just kissed her, reaching inside her with inelegant greed. She tasted of sunshine and air and frost.

"Alistair," she breathed when he pulled away to devour her beauty with his eyes, "I missed you."

A tear slid down her cheek, and he kissed it, pulling her close and snuggling into the fur cloak to nuzzle into her neck.

"I missed you, too," he told her, hearing the rough hoarseness of his own threatening tears. He had also feared for her more than he'd let himself realize.

"Come," she told him. "We have much of which to speak, unfortunately. There's little time for this, as much as I would happily ignore it all and focus just on this."

"Oh, that doesn't sound good," he said, then cursed himself for a fool. Just once, he'd like to say something suave and brilliant.

"It may well be worse than we all think," she told him, and something in her voice set him on edge in a way that he hadn't felt since Montreux's castle.

He stepped back and looked at her appraisingly. "Very well, let's go talk," he said, noting not only the deeply etched concern, but an exhaustion he hadn't realized before in his joy at seeing her again.

They walked down the hallway, and he held her hand as if it were the only life in the caverns. For him, maybe it was.


	83. Part 81

**Part 81:**

"What I've learned has disturbed me more and more," she told the assembled dignitaries, politicians, and her friends. "This is the best that I can lay it out. When I was in Denerim, I heard a lot of rumors that King Cousland is not killing Darkspawn, but is taking them captive. The same goes for blood mages.

"Ordinarily, this would make no sense, but apparently he has a mage at the castle who is able to control them. It would seem this same mage made the collars and is gaining greater control over them. This man, Avernus—"

She was cut off by Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana's combined gasp, "Avernus?"

"How can a Gray Warden do such a thing?" Alistair yelled, his fist slamming into the table, making Mira jump. "It's against everything we are sworn to!"

"Sophia did it," Wynne said softly.

"No!" Alistair said vehemently. "Even she didn't go so far as to use Darkspawn! What can he possibly be hoping to accomplish?"

"It gets worse," Mira told them. She shifted uncomfortably as they all turned to stare at her.

"Worse? Worse than that?" Alistair, sinking back into his chair. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

Mira took a deep breath. "No one has ever said so, but I don't believe the slaves or the children that are being taken are working in any factory."

"Oh, dear Maker," Wynne breathed. "Oh, he cannot have gone that far, not even him," she said, her face pale and wretched. "Why didn't you tell us this before?"

Mira sighed. "I… I feared you would all go into Denerim and get yourselves killed if I did," she admitted, ashamed. "You would have accomplished nothing, and would not have been there to help when you were truly needed and able to affect a difference."

"She's right, I know I would have," Leliana said.

Wynne sighed. "I don't wish to say that you're right, but I fear that you are. I doubt I would have been able to stop myself."

But it was Oghren who surprised them all. "By thunder, I ought ta strike ye dead where ye stand! Ye knowed this and ye was able ta walk away? What kind of person is ya?"

Mira winced at the accusation. She agreed with him, in her heart. She had suffered an agony of guilt with every step away that she took.

"Shut your mouth, you fool," one of the other dwarves interjected, "you woulda gone in there and got yerself killed, for nothing. There'd still be kids dyin'. There'd still be slaves dyin'. But no one would know. It would go on and on without end, cause no one else has guessed it. It might seem obvious now, but it didn't never occur to no one before now."

Oghren glared at the other dwarf for a few moments, before turning a venomous stare at Mira. "Ye shoulda telled me!" he yelled and stomped out the door, pulling the flask out of his beard on the way out.

"Well," Lady Isolde interjected, "as bad as this news is, at least it will get many more people into our campaign."

Mira stared at her with her mouth hanging open. The woman was positively mercenary!

She shook it off and turned to Alistair. "We must go to Orlais. We cannot defeat Royce's army with what we have. Even if we manage to pull more into our army, we simply will not have the numbers to stand against him."

Her pronouncement was met with utter, stunned silence.

"Go to Orlais? Unthinkable!" Arl Eamon said, crossing his arms. "We are Ferelden, we will settle our own internal squabbles!"

Mira looked at him, letting her disdain for him leak through into her voice. "This is no squabble, Arl. If you are too blind to see it, and you wish to continue to take the lead in this thing, then you have doomed us all already."

"I'll go myself," Alistair said. "I will make them see the extent of our plight. The Empress was already in negotiations with Caillan and they had reached a positive accord. Perhaps if she hears it from me personally, she will be more willing to invest—"

"Absolutely not. I will not allow it. You are too valuable and too important to this movem—"

"You cannot stop me," Alistair interrupted him. "I am a Gray Warden first, and if he is capturing and using Darkspawn, then he is an abomination of a whole other kind, and must be stopped."

"This is political suicide!" Arl Eamon snapped at him.

"Political suicide is the least of our concerns now," Mira told him. "The situation is increasingly desperate, and we have little choice left to us anymore."

They left the room, ignoring Eamon's and Isolde's combined protests. Pandemonium and arguing erupted behind them, but they didn't care. Their own course was set. They would go and get aid from Orlais, or die trying.


	84. Part 82

_Contains sexual content._

**Part 82:**

He wanted more than anything to take her into his room and throw her down on the bed and ravish her.

Instead, he was packing in a mad frenzy. He felt the urgency down to his very soul. Every moment wasted was a moment of life or death for someone.

The burden suddenly felt heavy and overwhelming. The thought of such suffering and misery, unstopped… he wanted to do what Mira had kept the others from, and run to Denerim right now and take every Darkspawn to the blackest depths of the Fade with him.

He sat down and buried his face in his hands. He was overwhelmed. The burden was too heavy. He didn't want to be King. He didn't want to be one of three surviving Gray Wardens in all of Ferelden. He didn't want to lead a rebellion and usurp the throne.

He heard her footsteps, heard the door close, and felt her soft, cool hand on his shoulder. When she pulled him into her arms, he buried his face in her chest and fought the urge to cry.

She lifted his face and kissed him, and he kissed her back with an intensity borne of desperation and pain. Then he did something he'd wanted to do from the day he met her. He reached up and started pulling pins out of her hair, letting them drop to the ground without a care.

When it tumbled down over his hands, he thought it was the softest, sweetest thing he'd ever felt in his whole life. He picked her up and settled her on his lap with her legs on each side of him, glad he hadn't yet put his armor on. The light suede breeches and tunic he wore let him feel the heat of her body against his.

He looked at her, and she was glorious. Full of life and beauty.

He couldn't stop himself. He had been away from her too long, and he was too desperate. He fought to pull her voluminous skirts up, but was too hindered by their position. He threw her, not ungently, onto the bed, carelessly shoving his backpacks onto the floor, unconcerned as items tumbled out in their fall.

He didn't undress her, simply pushing her skirts up, kissing her in a frenzy as she struggled and fought with the strap of his breeches. "Don't you know how to make a normal knot?" she asked him in exasperation.

He laughed and pulled back, enjoying her watching as he quickly undid the sailor's knot preferred by Templars. It was actually a quick jerk and the knot was undone. She rolled her eyes, and he thought she looked magnificent, with her hair down and wild across the bed.

Then they were as close to naked as they would get this time, and he found himself much better at finding the right spot this time. As he prodded her with his penis, he found her once again slippery and ready for him. He found himself pleased by the fact, a simple, male feeling that made him smile like a fool.

But then he realized something… he wasn't sure how she felt. "Okay?" he asked. She blinked at him in confusion. "Doesn't hurt this time?"

She grinned and shook her head. Her heels dug into his back and shoved him inside her. Then he forgot everything and lost himself in the heat of her body. He drove in and out, feeling increasing heat and hunger.

She gasped and arched under him, and he vaguely remembered something about women needing extra touches. He wished he'd paid more attention now, though he'd never thought he'd actually…

He slid his hand down between them, leaning back and watching it. He spread her apart as he drove in and out, watching his finger delving into the soft pink folds. He found the view of himself sliding in and out of her, the way that she almost seemed to be gripping him to be profoundly fascinating.

He listened and tried to follow the sound of her breathing and the quality of her moaning. Soon, he could tell that she was nearing her release, and he moved his finger more quickly, pumping faster, his other arm beginning to tremble from holding him up.

When she crested, arching towards him and crying out, he dropped onto both arms and sped up. Within moments, he felt his own release, and thrust against her again, feeling the overwhelming sensation pour through him even as he poured undeniable proof of his desire into her.

He leaned forward, bracing himself on his arms and covering her body with his, feeling possessive and bold. They kissed, and he fought the intrusion of reality. They had to get going.

They sighed together, as if the thought had come to them both at once.

"We should go," she said.

"Yes," he agreed. But he didn't move yet. He kissed her deeply. "I've never seen hair so beautiful. I wish I could see it down more often."

He slid away from her, and then grimaced slightly. Looking around, he finally spied a hand towel. Grabbing it, he cleaned himself, then her. "Messy," he said with a grin. She blushed a deep rose, and he remembered the rose he still had in one of his packs.

He would give it to her later, he decided as they packed, he put on his armor, and they left the room. Somehow, he thought she might appreciate the reason he had first picked it, and the reason he still had it.


	85. Part 83

**Part 83:**

They traveled quickly, all of them sensing the urgency of the situation. To Mira's infinite sadness, Oghren clumped along, taciturn and uncommunicative. He refused to even look at her, and Mira knew that the tentative friendship that had grown between them was over.

The whole group became more and more withdrawn, until Alistair broke the silence.

"How could he take up with Avernus, of all people? How? I just don't get it. How could Duncan have been so wrong about him?"

Mira knew immediately that this was the hardest part for Alistair. His deep faith in Duncan was being badly shaken.

"Maybe he wasn't wrong, Alistair," she said softly. "Maybe Royce was a good, decent man before the Joining." She sidled closer to him, keeping her voice too low for the others to hear. "What if the blood effected Royce this way? What if, although he survived the joining physically, it had a devastating impact on his mind?"

Alistair looked at her, and then away. He seemed to chew on her words for a while. Slowly, his face brightened, the worry and concern etched there lately seeming to melt, or at least thaw, somewhat.

"You know, you could be right. There was one recruit that I remember… he seemed fine but one day he just kind of went crazy and ran off to Orzammar. He was too young, freshly initiated. But Duncan said it's rare, but it does happen. Maybe Royce should have gone off, too, but didn't because he felt like he had to save everyone."

Mira took his hand in hers. She didn't know what more to say. It was, at least, one possible theory. And if it gave Alistair comfort and the ability to move on, she was relieved and comforted in her own part.

But she felt that Duncan had chosen Royce based on prowess, not personality. Duncan, in her personal estimation, had simply made a mistake. An error of judgment. Everyone did it, but Alistair needed to believe in Duncan, and Mira wasn't going to take that away from him.

They passed into Orlais in the afternoon, and Mira began to feel a strange, strong pull. She became restless, though she fought the feeling with her whole heart. Something urgent was tugging at her. Something unfinished, something undone.

The further they went, the stronger the feeling became. She finally stopped them, asking to have a fire and eat. They set up a temporary camp, and she began to eat, trying to fight the nauseous feeling arising in her. She had something to do! Something imperative! Something that would change everything!

She struggled against the feeling.

Alistair sat down beside her and sighed. Glad for a distraction, she asked him, "What's wrong?"

He looked at her. "It's nothing, stupid, really. I'm just being a whiner, I guess."

"I'd like to hear what's troubling you," she said. "It distracts me from… well, you know."

He nodded. "It's just… I don't know who I am anymore. I've lost track of myself somewhere along the line, I think. Trying to live up to everyone's expectations, and always failing."

"You're Alistair. The man I love. The man I admire. You're funny, and charming, but goofy, too. You're a gentle, good man, who can also take care of business. You're kind, but you're also strong. You have the fortitude to do what you have to, even when you don't want to." She told him pensively.

"You're also a Gray Warden, the heir to the throne, an ex Templar of the Chantry, and an Orlesian Chevalier," she continued. "All you have to do, Alistair, is have the good sense to know which role is most useful in any given situation. That's the true hard part."

"You're brilliant," he told her, surprise and awe on his face. "How do you always know exactly what to say to make me feel better?"

She smiled, fighting the rising tide of discomfort in her. "It's my job, Alistair. We're partners. Your job is to take the pummeling, mine is to make you feel better afterwards." She chuckled.

He sobered. "You've taken a lot of pummeling, yourself. I'm sorry for that."

She couldn't concentrate anymore on what he was saying. "I have to go. You have to go on to Val Royeaux without me. There's something important I have to do." She heard her voice continue as if from a distance. "You've got to go on without me, if I don't return. Don't stop and don't give up. It's too important to put this off for any one person."

What was she saying? She didn't know where to go, or even why.

"What?" he said, outraged surprise in his voice. "Why? What are you talking about?"

"I can't explain it," she told him. "But there's something here that I have to do. I don't know how to express it, but I know I have to do this. I must. It cannot wait any longer."

"You can't just go off by yourself!" he objected.

"She'll not be alone," Oghren said. "I'll be goin' with 'er." He turned to Mira. "Listen, lass. I shouldn'ta talked to ye like that. Ye was right in what ye done, and I'm sorry. But if ye got somethin' ye gotta be doing, I'll be goin' with ye. It's the least I kin do fer what I said. And plus, ye're my friend."

She couldn't help herself. She hugged him. He grumbled and growled at her, "Stop that! Darned thunderfartin' wemmins! Cut that out!" But he looked pleased when she stepped back.

"No. No! You're not going!" Alistair protested. "You can't even tell me why, you're just going to run off into the countryside in a strange country?"

She put her hand on his cheek. "Do you trust me, Alistair?" she asked.

He huffed and tried to speak several times. "Okay," he said finally. "Yes, I trust you." It was begrudgingly said, his face mirroring the hurt in his voice.

"I don't know why, but this is important, Alistair," she told him. "Please trust me. Go on without me. I promise that if I am alive, I'll find you." He looked ready to object, and she said, "I'll find you, I promise."

He hugged her, holding her fiercely. "Be careful, damn it!"

She nodded, determined not to cry. She was leaving him yet again. She felt black-hearted and evil. But something inside her, something foreign and strange, reassured her that everything was going to be okay. More than okay.

She clung to that strange presence, because it was all she had in that moment as she trudged away, not looking over her shoulder this time. She wouldn't be able to go on if she did.


	86. Part 84

**Part 84:**

"You know," Alistair said, trying not to choke on his misery, "if she wasn't on our side, I would be very, very afraid of her."

"Sometimes," Leliana said, "I think I am anyway."

"She's always been very intelligent," Wynne said. "And in tactics, I think she exceeds even her father. But she's very delicate emotionally."

Alistair felt almost as if he were being warned, and turned to look at the shrewd old woman. Her eyes bored into him, and he squirmed as he had when he was young and standing in front of the Revered Mother.

"Be careful, Alistair. When the time comes that she must lose you because you are King, she may be more deeply wounded than any of us want to admit. You may have to be the strong one and start putting distance between you ahead of time."

"Why? Because there's not enough distance between us already?" he asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice as he looked at her now-distant figure trudging down the road towards Montreux's castle. Why she would go back there, he had no idea. Little did he know, but she didn't even realize she was headed that way at all.

He turned to walk away, and Wynne's soft, "That wasn't what I meant, and you know it," followed him. He ignored it, wincing only slightly at the accusation. Why was he constantly getting screwed? Was it because he was a bastard?

He walked in brooding silence, answering with brief, pointed responses when anyone spoke to him. He wished it were all over and done with. But it was all just beginning.

When they finally reached Val Royeaux, he took the time to purchase some better clothes, at Leliana's urging. After a bath and a haircut, he felt a bit more "royal," and finally headed towards the Empress's palace.

Leliana continued to fuss, reminding him to call her "Your Imperial Majesty," and never to use her formal or informal titles or names unless strictly invited. He wanted to yell that the woman could take him or leave him, just the way he was, or she could bugger off into the Fade.

But he didn't. She was right, and so was Arl Eamon. Politics weren't normal life. He would have to at least pretend he wasn't a clueless idiot. Even if he was.

They entered the palace, and requested an urgent, important audience with Her Imperial Majesty. At first, they flatly refused. Then, when he told them who he was, they left and returned, informing him that the Empress would be able to see him at the end of the next week, and would he kindly leave until that time, please?

He found himself standing on the steps of the Palace, gasping like a beached fish. They seriously meant for him to wait almost two weeks while children were fed to Darkspawn? He felt a cold rage fill him. But he was a petitioner. He needed them, they didn't need him—at all.

"What are we going to do?" he asked Leliana in despair.

She shook her head. "I don't know, Alistair. That's actually really fast. Most dignitaries have to wait months—"

"People are dying!" he yelled at her.

"The Maker will make us a way," she tried to placate him. "If it's meant to be, a door will be opened for us—"

He waved her to silence and stalked off. Screw the Maker right back, since he was so busy screwing Alistair at every turn. He didn't want to hear anything more about "the maker."


	87. Part 85

**Part 85:**

Mira and Oghren trudged along the dirt track, little more than wagon ruts in the grass.

"Why're we goin' back to Montreux's castle?" he asked her abruptly.

"What?" she said. She stopped and looked around. A cold chill ran through her, and her breath stopped. She hadn't even realized! She felt rebellion and outrage swell within her.

She stood struggling with herself. That strange part of her that didn't seem to belong, didn't seem to fit, battled against the internal demons of fear that raged at her and made her want to go back, run away, flee the memories and the place…

In the end, she gave in to that part. "I don't know," she told him, strangling on the words.

He stared at her, then shrugged. "Okay." He continued along the dirt track, leaving her to follow or not, on her own personal strength of will.

"Oghren," she said when she caught up with him, "I think there's something wrong with me."

He looked at her from the corner of his eye. "If there were sommat wrong with ye, girl, ye wouldn't think so. Ye'd know it, or ye wouldn't. But ye wouldn't have ta be wonderin'."

She sighed and walked beside him. One of the things she liked about Oghren, oddly, was that he didn't talk a lot. They trudged along in stoic silence.

When they crested the rise several days later and looked down upon the sprawling little village and the castle, Mira felt a strange stirring of incredible joy. She recognized that it didn't belong to her, yet she felt it as if it did.

"We're not going to the castle," she told Oghren, certain that it was true. "We're going into the village."

So they did. They wandered for a while, until Mira found herself standing in front of a hovel door. She stood there in silence, somehow knowing it was the right place, but at the same time, not really sure. How could she be sure? And what could she say?

Finally, steeling all of the courage she possessed, she knocked on the door. After some moments, it opened. She stood staring at the woman in the doorway, finding her both alien and familiar. She was a town elf, and she held a bundle in her arms.

She stared back at Mira for a long moment, and then a sob escaped her. "You've come for him, haven't you?" she asked, trying hard not to cry.

"I—" Mira started, then didn't know what to say. 'Come for whom?' she found herself wondering.

The bundle was thrust into her arms, and she looked down to find a sleeping baby there. She blinked at it stupidly. "What?" she said.

"You're not here for the child?" the elf asked, her voice hopeful and frightened.

"I… I'm not sure," Mira said. "Maybe you need to tell me the whole story." She came inside, and the elf woman shut the door behind them.

When the tale was done, some hours later, Mira was left with her head reeling. She stared at the child in her arms and realized that here was the missing link. The key that would complete everything. The lynchpin that would save Ferelden.

But she looked up into the eyes of the weeping woman across from her, and something profound snapped inside of her. "Yes. I have come for him. And for you. What's your name?"

The elf looked up at her, "Serina," she replied, choking back a sob.

"Where's your husband, Serina?"

"Montreux killed him," she replied, her voice hollow and empty.

"So he's all you have left? And you're barely making ends meet, aren't you?"

Serina nodded and cried again. "But I guess it will be easier now, since you'll be taking him and he won't need me to care for him," she stated, doubling over in emotional pain.

"Oh, I think he's going to need you," Mira told her. "I can't nurse him. I don't know how to care for him. So you will need to pack up your things, and his. He still needs you, and you still need him."

Serina fell to the floor at Mira's feet, weeping and thanking her between sobs. Mira put her hand on Serina's head and gently patted her. "Shush, it's going to be okay. I will make sure that you remain in his life, all of his life, okay?" And she meant it.

This child had already lost everyone. This woman who had loved and cared for him for the past few months was also the only one he had left. They needed each other, they were as close to family as either of them could get.

Mira knew the value of family as few others could.


	88. Part 86

**Part 86:**

Another two days passed, and Alistair began to feel deeply disillusioned. A courier had arrived and told him that his meeting with the Empress was delayed. He felt rage and frustration rise within him.

Finally, having stewed in it longer than he could stand, he got up. This time, he didn't put on the fancy Orlesian clothes. He put on Caillan's armor. He polished it quickly, just to be sure it was properly shiny.

He banged on the women's door and told them when they opened it, "I'm going to see that Empress today, if I have to fight my way in."

He ignored Leliana's protests as he stomped off down the hallway.

When he arrived at the palace, he again demanded to see the Empress. When the pompous, officious twit behind the desk told him that he would have to wait until his allotted appointment, he informed him in short terms of what was happening in Ferelden, and why it was important for him to see her.

The man sniffed as if something foul-smelling had walked on him and told Alistair, "Not our problem that your country is too weak to take care of its own problems."

It took all of his formidable self-discipline not to beat the man senseless.

Then it struck him. 'All you have to do, Alistair, is have the good sense to know which role is most useful in any given situation. That's the true hard part.'

"What about a Chevalier? Does she have time to see a Chevalier?" he asked the odious fool behind the desk.

"Of course," he said smugly, smirking at Alistair from beneath the spectacles perched on his nose. "But you're no Chevalier," he told him.

"Don't be so sure," Alistair growled, and pulled his gauntlet off, showing him the ring.

Still smirking, now more openly than before, the bureaucrat crossed his arms in front of him. "And how do I know you didn't just take that off of the corpse of a real Chevalier?"

Nearly angered beyond his limit, Alistair growled, "Chevalier Fontaine inducted me some months ago. I assure you—"

The weaselly little man's face contorted with mirth. "Chevalier Dupont Fontain?" At Alistair's nod, the little man snickered. "That's a very foolish name to invoke in the Palace today, Ser. I believe you will regret doing so. Wait here."

He left the room, moving as slowly as stretched taffy. Alistair gritted his teeth, ignoring it as the others barged into the room behind him. When asked he informed them in a short, terse explanation, what had happened.

"Brilliant!" Leliana said. "I should have thought of that myself!"

"Except it didn't work," Alistair told her. "The little weasel has still refused me and now—"

"Alistair!" Chevalier Fontaine and the younger Chevalier, Sandy, came into the room, their faces wreathed in welcoming smiles.

"Fontaine!" Alistair cried, greeting the other man with a warm handshake and a hug that consisted of a pat on the back more than anything, really. The same went for Sandy.

The others were greeted in their turn, and Fontaine said, "As soon as Devreux told me you were here, I arranged the meeting you asked for. Empress Celine will see you in two hours. Shall we go and eat, and return? Perhaps you can catch me up while we dine."

As they filed out the door, Alistair left last. Unable to restrain himself any longer, he turned around and flipped a very, very rude gesture at the officious, self-important little Devreux, who paled and glared impotently.

Alistair's spirits were much lighter as he followed Fontaine to a nearby inn to eat.


	89. Part 87

**Part 87:**

Empress Celine was, in a word, regal. She seemed to positively float into the room, her hair elegant beneath the heavy Crown of State. She wore the Imperial colors of gold and purple, and her cloak was lined with rare furs.

She was slender and had an incredible grace and beauty that made Alistair swallow hard. He tried to focus on the fact that he was here to deal in matters of politics, so that he didn't run screaming from her presence. The only beautiful woman he felt comfortable around was Mira, and he longed for her now.

She would know how to handle this. She seemed to know how to handle everything.

As Leliana had instructed him, he inclined his head, but did not bow as the others did. He would offer her the courtesy of a man to a woman only, and would otherwise stand as her equal, as he had been bade.

He was keenly aware of the irony of that.

"So, do you come before me as Chevalier Theirin, or as King-to-be Alistair?" she asked him, and he noted that she looked amused by the entire situation.

"I come as a man in need of your help," he told her, and ignored Leliana's surprised gasp. "I hope to appeal to you as a person, because I'm relatively worthless as a politician."

She chuckled. "Politics are part of being a royal, Chevalier. It cannot be avoided."

"I'm a simple man. I recognize the importance of politics, but I have no time for them now." He told her, and told her the story, leaving out only details that were insignificant to the larger picture. As he spoke, she looked pensive and distant.

"These are grave matters indeed," she told him. "I understand your haste now. The ruination of your country continues apace while you sit here in my court attempting to negotiate your way past my officers. Please forgive me, had I known the extent of what you face, I would have responded sooner."

She stepped down and walked towards the group. "Chevalier Fontaine, I ask you this. Would you make the choice to help them, if you were free to do so?"

"Without a doubt, Your Imperial Majesty. Even were it not for the direness of their situation, I have come to know them and believe that they are honest and forthright. It is.. refreshing."

"I cannot help you in an official capacity without inciting a war," she told Alistair. "It would be an international incident that goes far beyond simply our borders. It would be political, if not literal, suicide."

"But. There is a way around this. However, it depends upon the auspices of the Chevaliers, and their commitment to their own. As such, I will leave you now, with this statement, and this alone. I refuse any assistance to the usurper. I cannot and will not involve myself or my country in the politics of other countries."

She turned to look at them again. "But I will not forbid the Chevaliers, always relatively independent within our borders, from any personal service they may wish to render unto one of their brothers. To do so would be to spit upon the very ones who are the backbone of our military and the elite amongst our protectors.

"I ask that you leave me now, and do not return unless it is solely in your capacity as Chevalier, or solely as the King of your nation, should such come about."

Then she left.

Alistair blinked in the aftermath of her powerful personality. "Did I just win, or lose?" he asked the room at large.

"A bit of both, I would say," Fontaine told him, clapping him on the shoulder. "Let's go get that army together."

Within hours, several phalanxes of Chevaliers were gathered, and the word had gone out through the various couriers. A Chevalier had need of them, to right a wrong.

Many of them rose to the call, as brothers to the need of a brother. They left house and home, craft and hall, hobby and whore. To the border they moved en masse, even as Alistair and his company marched that way, surrounded by the elite of Orlais.


	90. Part 88

**Part 88:**

Traveling with a baby was totally different, and altogether new. In short, it was impossibly difficult and surprisingly annoying. They had to stop each time the little boy, named Carson, nursed. Diapers were changed, and every time they came near water, those had to be cleaned.

It was exasperating and slow, and it seemed like every time they turned around, there were Darkspawn or wolves or… something.

Their journey slowed to a seeming crawl, Serina herself not being in the best of shape, either. It was with a great deal of sorrow that Mira heard that Alistair had already passed that way.

But it was with an even greater deal of comfort that she heard that not only had he gathered up a force of Chevaliers, but he had gathered up a force of Chevaliers and even Gray Wardens larger than many of the younger people had seen in all their memory.

She understood, too, with a sense of finality and regret, that this was a real war. A huge war. And one that they had a strong chance of losing.

As they moved on into Ferelden at last, she learned that the schism dividing the nation had grown far stronger. That it was slowly being torn apart by new laws meant to subjugate and control the common man while enticing the less scrupulous of the nobles.

Rumors were rampant, but from what she could gather, the reason why Royce was gathering such a huge army was because he intended to invade Orzammar and then lead his massive army of mages, Darkspawn, and soldiers into the very heart of it.

It was madness of the worst kind. He wanted to eliminate all of the so-called "Old Gods" before the Darkspawn could find them. He was beyond insane. But determined… he had even found some way to attract the Darkspawn so that he could trap them.

It seemed like they were everywhere, so whatever he was doing to attract them, was obviously working. As they moved into Ferelden, she found that more and more often, the Dire Bear was her companion in a greater way than simply being there for her—he was in her body more than she was she sometimes felt.

Word came that a massive battle was taking place in Denerim, and she pushed Serina and Carson as hard as she dared. In her heart, she was terrified that Alistair might die without her there. Or that he might become King before he knew all of his options. She despaired of ever reaching him.


	91. Part 89

**Part 89:**

Sweat trickled into the deep cut over his eye and burned him, but Alistair ignored it. They were fighting for the gates of Denerim, and the day was bleaker by the moment. They were pressed on every side, by Darkspawn and Royce's formidable army.

The Chevaliers and dwarves were holding in a ring around the elves, the mages, and the archers. They were surviving and holding off the masses, but they could gain no more ground. They were flanked on every side, unable to move for the press of bodies. The positives were that the press of bodies made it harder for the other side to gain ground as well, and had kept them alive.

But they would tire. And when they did, they were doomed.

He hacked viciously at another Hurlock, splitting the thing's skull and wincing as gore splattered him. But no sooner did it drop than it was trampled underfoot by a scrabbling Shriek who sliced at Alistair with sinister glee.

Shouts from behind them was the first indication that something had changed. He tried to look, but couldn't. An hour or so passed, and his body screamed with fatigue. He realized something, though.

The ranks of streaming Darkspawn were flowing back into the gates of Denerim as if they were being driven back. They began to gain ground, and he felt reserves of energy he hadn't known he possessed.

Slowly, they drove the Darkspawn and the King's soldiers back into the gates.

There, as the gates slammed shut, they ceased their push. They would begin again the next day, but for the moment, they were utterly exhausted. Alistair turned to find out why they had managed to turn a completely helpless situation into a win.

"Murdock!" he cried out in surprise. He saw before him what could only be called a massive army of common men. They were armed to the teeth, some of them better than the younger of the Chevaliers.

"This is our land," Murdock said. "We won't be shamed by sitting back while strangers fight for us."

He grasped Alistair's hand in greeting, and then Chevalier Fontaine's.

"I'm sorry we're running late, but Owen's only one man. He cranked out weapons at great speed, but even sober, he can only do so much."

"Well," Alistair told him, "if we win this thing, remind me to make sure that Owen's cared for in style for the rest of his days. You and he just saved our asses, and that's no small thing."

"I'll do it," Murdock agreed. "He has more than earned it, working day and night on barely any sleep at all."

"Let's rest and regroup. Royce seems to have called Darkspawn from the countryside to come in and flank us. I don't know how we're going to stand against him when he's got a seemingly endless supply of bodies to throw at us."

"Aye, a rest will do us all good," he said agreeably. "Perhaps tomorrow we should push our way in and have a contingent hold the gates."

"Eat first," Fontaine said, "then talk strategy."

They healed the wounded, disheartened by the deaths, but glad that there hadn't been more.

They were also greatly comforted by the fact that their numbers had more than doubled, nearly tripling, simply by the addition of the untrained, but well-armed farmers, artisans, and craftsmen.

They soon learned that these men had come from all across the face of Ferelden, to stand united against Royce. Alistair was moved by their simplicity and their determination. They seemed to grasp what the nobles had struggled with… either Ferelden stood together, or it would die together.


	92. Part 90

_I would just like to take a moment to thank again those who leave me comments and reviews. I'm truly grateful for your time, and for you letting me know that you are enjoying it. alyssacousland isn't ONLY on my favorite authors list because I love her stories, which I do. :)_

_So anyway, a big huge thanks to everyone who has reviewed, and an additional one to alyssacousland for just being a generally awesome lady!_

* * *

**Part 90:**

The next day was difficult, but they followed Murdock's idea and took the gates. Then they set archers, mages, and oil on them. Although eventually the gates would be taken by sheer attrition, they had ensured that the attrition would be, at the best, severe and extreme for the Darkspawn pawns.

Alistair actually approved the idea on the concept that the Darkspawn would be kept busy and away from civilians.

They pushed into the market district, which was surprisingly clear of Darkspawn, considering the large number that had retreated into it the evening before. This concerned Alistair as much as the fact that they hadn't attacked at night, as would have been reasonable.

They cleared the area, then they moved on and cleared out each segment of the town. Back allies and even the palace itself.

That was when Alistair knew and understood what was going on. The bulk of the army had been drawn back to Fort Drakon. Once again, that would be the place of final confrontation.

When they arrived, they found the gates teeming and surrounded by Darkspawn, guards, and mages. It was a massive throng of monstrosities, and Alistair's blood ran cold at the sight. How could this have happened? How could any Gray Warden have done this terrible thing?

"So, you have come to visit me. A pathetic would-be usurper to my throne, eager to lap up the power that is mine, and mine alone," Royce shouted, standing above the tumult on the massive gates.

"What you're doing is insane and must be stopped," Alistair answered him, ignoring the taunts. "You're no Gray Warden, you're a monster!"

"Your mind is so small, Alistair. You have no vision at all. You're a mediocre man with a mediocre mind and a mediocre ambition. You will never be great because you are nothing, to anyone. You're not good enough for nobility to follow you, and too good for the commoners to care about you." Royce gestured widely. "You probably even call this pathetic gathering of rabble an 'army,' don't you?"

Below him, the horde of Darkspawn roared, as if laughing at a joke.

"Look around you, Alistair. I control them all. Every last one of them. Not a single one can defy me. Not a single one would even think of doing so. When I am done with them, I will command them to kill themselves and each other, and they will do so, happily and without a single protest. I will kill them all when I have rid the world of the Old Gods. There will never be another Blight," he shouted down. He pumped his fists as if in victory.

"You're mad," Alistair said. "You're destroying everything we're meant to protect. Your actions are as evil, if not moreso, than the Darkspawn!"

"Alistair, Alistair, Alistair… you cannot be this naïve; not even you can possibly be this naïve! Every great accomplishment requires sacrifice. Everyone who dies for this, is a hero! What man, woman, or child wouldn't want to be a hero? Who wouldn't give his or her life to save the world?"

He leaned forward, and Alistair wished he would fall, toppling to the ground below.

"I'm not trying to rule the world, Alistair. Yes, certainly Ferelden will have to be rebuilt, but I have already begun the steps that will be required to do so. The commoners must be brought into line so that there are workers. Lines must be drawn and clear, and hierarchies must be unquestioned.

"Look around you, Alistair. Ferelden is but one small part of the world. Come, join me! Take the throne, indeed… I will lead this mighty army into the underground, and rid the world of the Blight forever! You can rule, as you wish to. All I ask is that you not interfere. Let me finish my work. Help me finish my work, Alistair! Set the world free from the Blight! I will rule until the Darkspawn are all dead. We will both have what we want, and the world will be set free!" He threw his arms wide, a magnanimous and sweeping gesture.

Avernus walked up beside Royce then, and Alistair was unsurprised to see that even he now wore a collar… probably one he had made himself.

"You double-crossed Avernus, I see," he told Royce.

"Come now, Alistair. You're no mage, a collar wouldn't effect you. Avernus is evil, you and I both know that. He has passed his usefulness as a researcher, and now he will serve as a mage. It isn't ideal, and I confess to a deep regret in using him this way, but really, Alistair, surely you can see the importance of keeping such a man under control. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so efficient in creating the things, hmm?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair saw what he had been waiting for. The archers and the remaining mages were on the walls, and they were secure.

"Enough talk, Royce," Alistair shouted. "It's time for you and your puppets to die!"

The army rushed in, and whatever Royce yelled was lost in the resulting tumult.


	93. Part 91

_You know, asteracaea, I know what you mean completely! I have had to put a moratorium on my own reading of other people's stories, else I would never get mine done! There are some really great ones, so I've had to turn on the brakes... I really want to get this one done, though... so I can do a bit of avid reading of my own. :D_

_I keep promising myself... "Just get it done, then you can read for a while... so get to writin'!" *chuckle*_

* * *

**Part 91:**

Mira lunged forward and the Dire Bear's massive, powerful jaws closed on the Genlock Emissary's throat. With a twist and a jerk, she tore it out, cutting off a strangled scream from the nasty creature. Blood flew, a dark red curtain that obscured her vision and made her blink and shake her shaggy head.

The Dire Bear warned her, a shivering impulse that ran along her nerves. She turned and saw a Shriek heading towards Serina and the baby. Her own protective instincts roared to life, propelled by the frenzy of the mighty Bear.

She reared up onto his back legs, towering over the shriek and roaring foul breath into its face. It stopped in surprise and stared at her, then made its characteristic screech that gave its kind their name.

She reached out a mighty paw and knocked it to the ground, leaping on it even as Oghren finished off a Hurlock and raced towards them. It shimmied out from under her, only to meet Oghren's brutally efficient axe.

Its final scream of agony made the Dire Bear roar with triumph. She looked around for more, but there was only blood, death, and corpses.

The only sound was the wailing of the baby, the precious bundle that they had to deliver safely… a prospect that looked less and less likely with every passing hour. The Darkspawn had increased to the degree that they could barely make any headway at all.

But the gates were visible at last, and as Mira sat and cleaned her wounds amid the stench of death and decay that was so typical for Darkspawn, she felt her flagging hopes revive. Perhaps they had already taken them. She could only hope and keep going.

At this point, keeping going was their only hope. She didn't have the energy or the strength to turn around and fight all the way back through the Darkspawn horde to any sort of safety.

If they didn't make the gates within a few hours, or the gates were held by Darkspawn or Royce's minions when they got there… all would be lost. She would never see Alistair again, never hold him again, never tell him that she loved him. The Gray Wardens would not be rebuilt, and Ferelden would be vulnerable to any further Blight.

So, because Ferelden needed Alistair—but not in the way they thought they did—and because she needed Alistair, she got up and trudged up the road towards the heavy reinforced gates of Denerim.

For three more hours, they battled wearily, protecting their precious cargo and the woman who was now his mother. But when they neared the gate, the fighting became thick and heavy, so much so that they found themselves increasingly desperate.

"What kind of fools are you people?" a voice asked as they were surrounded by… humans and elves. "come, we must get you to the gate quickly."

Staggering, recognizing that she was severely injured, Mira followed with all the haste and strength she had left.

"I really hope that's your bear," another voice said. "Wounded or not, I'm sure it can wreak havoc inside."

"Ain't no bear, it's a mage," Oghren growled.

"He wearing a collar?" the voice asked as Mira staggered and stumbled onto the bear's chin, dragging herself back up only by sheer willpower.

"No, _she_ ain't wearin' no bedamned collar!" Oghren yelled. "What do ye take me fer, a fool?"

"Just asking," the voice grumbled, and Mira staggered heavily against the small opening that had appeared in the gates. She was pushed from behind, and then she was sprawled on the dusty cobbles of Denerim. The Dire Bear departed, and she was alone, awash in pain.

The heavy gates closed with a reverberating boom, and then as darkness descended on her like the black wings of fate, she called for Alistair and wept in her defeat.

Those present would later tell the tale, and to a person, agreed that they had never heard a sound of greater despair or longing.


	94. Part 92

**Part 92:**

He felt grim, cold satisfaction when his sword struck bone. That satisfaction, however, turned irritation when he had to fight and struggle and wrench to jerk it out. He blocked blows from another as he placed his foot on the Hurlock corpse and yanked with all his strength.

The sword flew free, arcing in the air and slamming viciously into the helm of yet another Hurlock. Blood splattered on him again, to mingle with the coating of blood that already slicked his armor. Alistair didn't even notice.

As ever in battle, he was pragmatic, and followed up with a powerful slam of his shield against the stumbling Hurlock's chest. He was too tangled up to swing the sword now, though, so he just slammed the butt of the pommel into the Hurlock's throat, silencing him forever in the middle of a throaty "hur hur hur" laugh.

"Is that Death you're wearing? It really suits you," he told the corpse, moving on to the next.

He had been hacking and fighting forever, it felt like, when he saw Fontaine fall. He fought his way over, slicing negligently at an oncoming Genlock, chopping his leg off in a single, powerful swing. He ignored it, knowing the beast would be dead within moments. The major artery in his leg would bleed out and end his life within minutes, if not seconds.

By the time he got to Fontaine, the Chevalier was fighting for his life, swinging his broadsword in powerful arcs. Had Alistair arrived a few seconds later, it would have been too late for the Orlesian.

Sandy arrived almost simultaneously, and as Alistair finished clearing the last Shriek, he knelt beside the two Orlesians. "What can I do to help?" he asked Sandy.

The younger man shook his head, his lips pursed. "He'll live, if we can get him back to the healers. But he'll require a great deal of recovery time."

"You can send that pretty bard up to me anytime," Fontaine said. "I'm convinced that would speed my recovery." He coughed weakly.

"We've got to go," Sandy said.

"I can't help, I've got to—"

"Wouldn't expect you to," Fontaine said. "Go. Save the world." His chuckle ended on another cough.

Alistair gripped his shoulder and then returned to the bulk of the fighting, where there was a mage with a repulsion glyph on the ground. Soldiers circled just outside the bright glyph, while the collared mage cackled and threw spells at them.

Alistair didn't hesitate. He came into range and, with a bellow, dissipated the brilliantly glowing glyph.

The mage's face registered first surprise, and then terror. Alistair ran him through, then cut his head clean off of his shoulders when the mage looked down in surprise at the gaping, bloody hole in his chest.

He had no time to lose, and none for subtleties or niceties. He saw an open line up the steps towards Fort Drakon's front gates, and he made a beeline for it.

Somehow, he felt in his heart that his time was running out.


	95. Part 93

**Part 93:**

There were three healers amongst the mages at the gate. They rushed together to huddle over the fallen mage, one of them grabbing one of the elves. Thrusting poultices into his hands, she commanded, "Bandage. Now."

The three stood up and began to chant as Oghren jumped from foot to foot, grumbling and swearing and pulling at his beard.

"They'll save her," one of the other mages said. "If anyone can, it's these three. They're the best."

"No they ain't," Oghren growled. "Wynne's the best, and she ain't here!" He stamped over and slammed his fist against the gate, causing it to reverberate again.

The elf slapped the powerful poultices onto wounds, but blood continued to ooze, even as waves of magic rolled across Mira's body. The magic curled and snaked and caressed, and still her breathing was ragged and slow.

Finally, Oghren pushed the elf aside and grabbed an injury kit. He was of the opinion that the magic was merely keeping her alive. So he started probing and feeling around. He was a dwarf warrior, and all of them knew a thing or two about severe injuries.

"Stop it!" one of the archers yelled at him, coming over to drag at his arm. "You're going to make it worse, poking around like that!"

Oghren grabbed the man by the front of his leather tunic. "By the left tit of yer Maker, this 'ere is my friend, and I ain't lettin' her die. Ye do not want to get in me way right now, mate. Ye jest don't." He pushed the man so hard that he fell on his rump, but he didn't care. He went back to probing for broken bones.

Resetting a rib, he cut off her robes, fighting because, to his surprise, it was reinforced with metal. He found a deep gash at her neck, still leaking blood. He grabbed up a needle and sutures from the injury kit and closed the wound with it. No sooner did he do so, than he saw with satisfaction that the magic was then able to wash over it and close it back to pristine white skin, unaffected by even a scar.

Soon, the work was done. He sewed and reset bones as the mages chanted, until, with a sudden choking gasp, Mira sat up, her eyes wild and her arms and legs flailing.

"Whoa there," he said as the three healers slumped to the ground. "Yer okay," he told Mira.

"Git them some food!" he yelled.

Those not fighting on the walls scrambled to obey, and Oghren sat back, pleased, as both the healers and Mira began gobbling food as if they'd never eaten before.

When she was done, Mira sat, white-faced and shocked on the cold cobble street. "I'm alive," she said, her voice strained.

"Ye can thank me later," Oghren told her. "And them mages over there mighta had somethin' to do with it, too, I'm supposin'."

Mira managed a smile, though it was spare and pained.


	96. Part 94

**Part 94:**

Alistair looked up to see Wynne, Leliana, and Zevran converging on him, fighting their way to join him. He felt relief wash over him. He wouldn't be alone.

He made it to the doors, and found that they weren't barred. That alone scared him more than the horde of Darkspawn in the courtyard had.

He pushed and the doors creaked open. They pushed their way through, past traps and more Darkspawn and a growing number of collared mages.

At last, they found themselves in an inner room, massive and echoing. Royce sat indolently on a high-backed chair at a table across the room from them.

"Come," he said. "Join me. Have something to eat."

"I think I'd rather just kill you," Alistair told him. "I've never been very good at conversation."

"Well, that's certainly true," Royce said. "Very well, if you insist on making this unpleasant, then we shall do so." He reached over and pushed a lever behind the ornate chair he was sitting in, and strolled towards them.

The doors on each side of the chamber opened, and Darkspawn and mages poured in.

"Accept your defeat with dignity, Alistair. Don't make these poor people suffer and die on your behalf. End it now, and they can die quickly, without all the suffering." He seemed urbane, charming, courteous. His arms in the kingly robe swept wide to encompass Alistair's companions. "Don't they deserve better?" he asked in a sinuous, persuasive voice.

"Be careful," Wynne warned. "He is not what he seems. I suspect he hasn't been for a long time now."

"Oh, I'm wounded. Truly. I'm going out of my way to save the world, to free Ferelden from any future Blights, and you seek to malign and slander me?" He walked closer, then stopped, cocking his head and assessing her. "Such a powerful mage could be a great boon to my life's work," he told her. "But then, you are not what you seem, are you, old woman? I hardly think you're one to be pointing fingers, when two souls occupy your body, hmm?"

Alistair heard the sound of marching feet behind them, and turned to see soldiers, archers, and mages pouring in through the doorway. Fontaine, of course, was not among them, yet the Chevaliers had not lost their direction or faltered.

"Really, you need an army to face me?" Royce asked Alistair.

"I wouldn't, if it weren't for the one you have surrounded yourself with," Alistair responded, feeling like such a comment exposed the true depths of Royce's madness.

"Ah yes. I must concede the point," Royce said. "Very well. Shall we fight each other, or shall we set our armies loose and watch the fun?"

"I will not leave Darkspawn to live," Alistair told him. "They will die with you."

"And here I thought that you, in your arrogance, would fall so easily into my trap," Royce said. "Alas, you are, as always, perverse."

Alistair shrugged. "Perversity is my special talent," he told Royce. A snicker from behind him made him blush.

"I didn't mean it that way!" Alistair blustered. The snickering increased and he sighed.

"Let's just get on with it, can we? I hate it when the bad guy just talks and talks and talks like this. You'd think we were on a Sunday picnic." Alistair hefted his sword and shield and stepped forward.

"So be it!" Royce shouted.

Suddenly, as they watched, he began to twist and distort. His jaw elongated and warped. He became at first distorted, and then began to take on a distinctive, familiar shape.

"Oh, this is not good," Alistair said, redundantly. "This is not good at all."

Royce was fully replaced by an Archdemon. "I would have let you rule in peace until you died," the Archdemon told him. "But you're so stubborn. So small-minded."

"Where is Royce? How did you do this?"

"I am Royce," the Archdemon said. "We are one. We made a bargain, Royce and I, and now we are united in purpose, in body, and in actuality."

"This is bad," Alistair said. "This is really bad."

"I think you mentioned that," Zevran told him.


	97. Part 95

**Part 95:**

Mira was late to the party, as usual. She stepped into the room and listened as raptly as the others at first. She desperately wanted to go straight to Alistair, to tell him she was there, to reassure him, to explain everything…

But he was in conversation with Royce, so she slowly edged her way around the room, listening to the peculiar discussion and beginning to get an idea of what had happened. She remembered Alistair telling her that some of the old-timers claimed they could actually hear the Archdemon when it spoke.

She suspected that the ones who "went crazy" were ones who were highly sensitive and could actually hear and understand much earlier… but who were, even more than that, fully able to converse back and forth.

And Royce hadn't known, so he had continued on. Until it was too late, and he had absorbed part of the spirit of the Archdemon—enough to anchor it to this world when it was killed by her father, Loghain.

This time, she swore to herself, she wouldn't allow that to happen. And she wouldn't allow Alistair to die. Ferelden needed him. She would save him. She had convinced Oghren to protect and hide Serina and Carson. When she explained fully, he had been rebellious, but had agreed to speak if she couldn't.

But, he had made no bones whatsoever about the fact that he not only disagreed with her, but that he disagreed vehemently.

Well, he didn't get to decide, and ultimately, neither would she. She ached to tell Alistair that she was there, but there was no time. She ached to say everything she felt, and she regretted not telling Oghren.

It was too late now. There was no time left for regret, as the Royce-demon lunged at Alistair with jaws larger than his body. Alistair sidestepped, and his sword clanged emptily off of the beast's teeth.

Mira called out to the Dire Bear, and was transformed. She dispatched the two Darkspawn who had attacked her the moment they were released from Royce's mind control command to wait.

Then she leaped with all of her strength, landing high on the Royce-demon's flank. Iron jaws burrowed through tough hide and into the flesh beneath. The bestial monstrosity roared and swiped at her. She held on for dear life—so that when it caught her in the side, she ripped out a chunk of flesh.

While the Royce-demon was occupied with her, Alistair landed a powerful blow to its side, and Mira saw Zevran scrambling up the ornate decorative ornamentation on a pillar, until he reached a ballista. He pointed it at the Royce-demon and began to fire it.

The first massive bolt struck home, and the monstrous Archdemon roared. Lurching backwards, it grasped the bolt and yanked it out with a bellow. It swung the offending bolt, knocking soldiers and Darkspawn alike off of their feet.

Mira leaped back onto his flank, even as another bolt struck home. It was close enough that she could grasp it, and she did. Using it as leverage, she climbed up the Royce-demon's back, until she could claw her way up his spine.

Torn between the irritating bolts, the man in front of it, the pesky mages, and the bear climbing it like a scratching post, the Archdemon threw its head back, rearing up onto its hindquarters.

Consequently, it struck its head on the top of the building, and crashed towards the ground, pinning Alistair even as he tried to roll out of the way. Mira held on for dear life, but as the Archdemon crashed down, one rear claw lost purchase and she found herself sliding, gouging deep lines into tough hide.

Thrashing, the Archdemon swiped at her, and she felt agony blaze through her once more. She was nowhere near full health yet, and thought for a moment that she was done at last. But she had one more task, and she wouldn't die—

Healing flowed through her, a musical magic that eased the pain and closed wounds. She let loose her own roar this time, even as the Archdemon began to roll and twist, trying to crush or dislodge her.

She raced along him, digging and clawing for purchase on blood-slicked hide.

Alistair shouted something at her, but she couldn't make it out. He sliced at the Royce-demon's leg, opening a bloody, deep gash on it.

The Archdemon refocused on him, and bolts began to slam home yet again in the bestial demon's side.

She had finally reached her goal, and Mira sank the Dire Bear's mighty jaws into the Archdemon's neck, burrowing until she could barely breathe.

The Royce-demon's neck arched, and he twisted, bellowing and snarling and thrashing in desperation.

Alistair went for the exposed belly, gouging a deep hole along it.

Just as she was certain that they would win, the beast caught her with a claw. She was wrenched free, the claw that had caught her now sunk much more deeply into her own belly than Alistair's sword had sunk into the Archdemon's.

She lay where she slid to, gasping and struggling. She crawled then, determined that Alistair would not be the one to die. Ferelden needed him. It couldn't be Alistair.

Even as she crawled back to seek the throat, the bear making strangled sobbing sounds, she saw him flung across the room, to slam into the pillar that held the ballista that Zevan was working.

She watched in horror as the ballista and Zevran tumbled down, and watched as Alistair helplessly tried to drag himself away using only his arms. Her heart plunged as she realized he had broken his back hitting the pillar.

But she saw healing magic wash over him, to both his help, and his detriment. His body arched and twisted as the magic forced it mercilessly back into shape. She pushed down her empathy and crawled towards the Archdemon, turning her back on Alistair else she lose her nerve and go to him instead.

She was nearly there when she felt herself go rigid. Her muscles refused to work, and she could move only her eyes. She desperately fought the full paralysis, especially as she felt a heal wash over her, and the pain subsided to a wailing pain rather than a shrieking pain-tsunami.

Then she realized that she'd had a paralysis spell cast on her—by Wynne, who walked towards the thrashing, dying Archdemon.


	98. Part 96

**Part 96:**

"You cannot kill me, Healer," the Royce-demon told her. "You're no Gray Warden." It was dismissive and even derisive. "I will die momentarily, and I will simply find another host from amongst these creatures. I will be reborn."

"No, I'm no Gray Warden, that's true," Wynne told him. "But I am something different. Because of your dual nature, I doubt that any Gray Warden could kill you, either."

A gargling laugh came from the Archdemon. "I don't fear you, old woman. You're weak, soft. That's why you're a healer. No fortitude for killing."

"I have done more than my share of killing, demon. But I'm not going to kill you today. You are already dead."

"Then what," asked the creature, lying on his side as his life bled out the wounds that riddled it from end to end.

"I am here to die, and take you with me to the Fade," Wynne told him.

It seemed almost as if the heated sound of battle around them paused, suspended for an instant at the words of the Healer. The pandemonium returned, though, the pause passing back into sound.

Still paralyzed, Mira, Alistair, and Zevran were forced to watch helplessly as Wynne fell to her knees, no outward sign of her death visible.

Then she stood before them, hand in hand with another spirit. The spirit of the Archdemon, as it died, rose to greet them. Its massive head swung around as it searched for another host, but Wynne's spirit was faster.

Before it could react, she leaped, the spirit staff she held swinging forward and altering to become chains. The Archdemon was chained immediately, and Wynne landed in front of it.

The other spirit stepped forward, and took Wynne's hand. In their other hands, they reached down and picked up the chains that bound the struggling, writhing Archdemon. Then, from the corpse of the Archdemon, rose yet another spirit.

It was Royce, and he stepped towards Wynne and the Spirit that stood with her. Everyone in the great hall heard him as he said, "It is my right."

Wynne nodded. "Yes, it is."

Royce stepped forward and plunged the sword in his hand into the chest of the Archdemon, and a great wind roared through the hall, with the Archdemon and the other spirits at the center of the maelstrom.

Then, the wind, like a tornado, began to swirl into an ever decreasing, tighter pattern.

Wynne turned to look at Alistair and Mira, and with a sad smile, lifted one hand to say 'good-bye.'

Then they were gone, and Darkspawn began to run for the doors. All around them, Darkspawn were cut down as they fled, but Alistair, Mira, and Zevran stepped forward to Wynne's body; still and cold on the hard floor.

"Wynne," Mira cried, tears flowing from her eyes unnoticed. "No! No!" she cried it over and over, even as Alistair pulled her against him and rocked her. "No, no, no. Why did it have to be Wynne? It should have been me. It should have been me! It's not fair!"

"She saved us all," Alistair said softly, his own voice choked with tears and loss. He hadn't realized just how much he had loved the elderly mage until that moment.

Mira wept without shame, until a scream was ripped from her raw, aching throat. She felt that she couldn't bear the loss a moment longer.

Alistair picked her up and carried her away, she still reaching for the dear friend she had just lost.

"Please tell me she's not gone," Mira pleaded with Alistair, and he pulled her closer, ignoring the tears that ran down his own face. "Tell me I'll wake up tomorrow and she'll still be here."

He said nothing, and she broke down and wept against his bloody, sticky armor. He just carried her, not knowing what else to do. He carried her all the way to the palace. By the time they arrived, she had stopped crying, subsiding to hiccups.


	99. Part 97

**Part 97:**

She found Oghren, who pointed her towards the rooms where Serina was staying with little Carson. She brought them with her as she entered the hall of the emergency Landsmeet.

"No! It should be Arl Eamon! The people know him, they trust him!"

"It cannot be Arl Eamon. The common people will not follow him. They don't believe he understands them and that he won't rescind Royce's edicts, because—"

"He never supported those edicts!"

"It has to be Alistair! He's Maric's son! There must be stability, and the only way to get it—"

"We are not going to support a bastard! The nobility will not stand for—"

The din was unbelievable. They were arguing and fighting like children. But their arguing, their fighting, their posturing was all in vain. They didn't know everything—they didn't know the most important thing.

She stepped into the room, and she drew the cowering Serina with her. "Come. We must do this. For his sake, for our sake, for Ferelden's sake."

"They'll take him away from me," the distraught elf woman sobbed. "I'll never see him again, I'll be sent to the Alienage and I'll lose him."

Mira grabbed her arms and shook her slightly. "No! I won't allow that to happen. We won't allow that to happen. Alistair won't allow that to happen. I swear it."

She led her up along the carpet towards the dais where Alistair, Arl Eamon, and various other dignitaries stood arguing back and forth with each other and the crowd. As they walked along, the crowd began to silence to watch them, staring openly.

Slowly, as the quiet began to spread, the room grew more and more still, until even those on the dais realized something was amiss. They turned almost as one to look at Mira, Serina, and Carson.

"Mira!" Alistair greeted her, his face lighting up with a smile.

She raised her hand to stay him, and he subsided with a confused frown.

"What is your purpose here?" Arl Eamon asked her.

"Alistair cannot be King," Mira replied.

The room erupted into pandemonium, people arguing and shouting and chattering.


	100. Part 98

**Part 98:**

Alistair's heart lodged into his throat and he almost staggered. Why was she doing this?

She had fought so hard, for so long, and now, here, she betrayed him! Just like Royce.

Except that this time, it hurt so much worse. So much worse that he thought he couldn't stand it.

"Wait, hear me out," she said, her eyes pleading with him. His gut twisted and he nodded mutely.

The room quieted, and Mira walked closer to the dais.

Turning to face the Landsmeet, she said, "If we've learned anything from Royce, it is that Ferelden needs to have Gray Wardens."

Her words were met with a smattering of boos and cheers, mingling together in a strange, uncertain cacophony.

"If we'd been a full force, then the seasoned Wardens would have seen his madness. He would never have gotten this far. And without Gray Wardens, we are helpless against the Darkspawn. You all have heard the rumors that only Gray Wardens can kill the Archdemon. This is true.

"Ferelden cannot go on without her Gray Wardens. And the Gray Wardens need a strong leader. They need a leader that can walk the line between Ferelden, and rebuilding the Gray Wardens. I believe that leader can only be Alistair.

"But it goes well beyond that, my friends."

Alistair relaxed a little bit. She wasn't completely betraying him, she was just misguided. She meant well… didn't she?

"There is an heir to the throne, one with a stronger claim than Alistair's own," Mira continued. "And this heir is one that no one here can argue with. An heir whose claim is more certain than even Anora's.

"Because Anora, although being Cailan's wife… is not Cailan's son. Nor has she borne him a son. This much, we know.

"But what is not known, is that Cailan did, indeed, have a son. He had an affair with an Orlesian woman named Tarra. She was kidnapped and taken back to Orlais, made the prisoner of a Chevalier named Montreux." She walked along the lush carpet, until she reached the elf woman who had entered with her.

Taking the baby from the woman's arms, she said, "She gave birth to a healthy son, while this woman, Serina's son was stillborn. Because he was half human, he looked fully human, and the midwife, at the behest of Tarra, switched the babies.

"When he learned that the babe was stillborn, Montreux had Tarra put to death. But her son lived on, cared for and loved by Serina here. He is, without any doubt whatsoever, the rightful and legal heir to the throne."

Once more, shocked chattering and arguing broke out.

"What proof do you have?" Arl Eamon shouted over the din, waving his hands for silence. "How dare you come in here, slandering the late King Cailan and making such radical, slanderous claims? How dare you speak to this Landsmeet without petitioning to do so? How dare you—"

"I have proof," Mira cut him off. "I have this." She pulled from her pocket a small item, and the room at large strained to see.

"Well, what is it?" someone shouted.

She held it up. "This is the Royal Seal of King Cailan," she said. "It can be borne only on his person, and can be bestowed only by him."

This time, the furor was immense. There was shouting, and Alistair suddenly found himself fearing for Mira's life. He leaped down the steps of the dais towards her, waving the guards over.

They surrounded the frightened elf and Mira, pushing the eager crowd back.

Then, suddenly, a puff of white mist appeared, and people began to fall back on their own. Silence spread across the room once more.

The shade of a woman appeared. "Mira, you have been so brave, so strong. Thank you for delivering my son safely to his Home." The shade of a man walked up beside her. There were gasps all around as they recognized him—it was Cailan.

"It's a trick!" someone shouted. But he found himself glared at and shushed by those around him.

"This is our son?" Cailan asked.

"Yes. He is Home," said Tarra.

"Let us go, then," Cailan told her, taking her hand. He stopped and looked at Anora, standing still and pale on the dais. "Please forgive me, Anora. I loved her, as you loved Royce."

The pair walked into the mist and were gone. Shocked silence reigned. Bann Teagan stepped forward and took the seal from an unresisting Mira. "It is legitimate!" he shouted, lifting it over his head into the air.


	101. Part 99

**Part 99:**

"So who is to be Regent?" shouted someone from the back of the room. "We're no better off than before!"

"Ah, but we are," Mira said. "For of everyone here, only Alistair is truly qualified to be Regent." She saw his head swing towards her in surprise.

"You see, of everyone here, only Alistair understands the needs of every group here. He knows the needs of the common man, because although he is of royal blood, he has lived as one. He knows the needs of the nobles of Ferelden, because he has had to walk among them in order to bring them together to fight the threat that Royce represented.

"He knows the needs of the Gray Wardens, because he is one, and there are no secrets from him, as there must necessarily be to those who are not." She stepped forward, and continued. "He also is the only person here who has the ear of the Empress. Can anyone else claim such an association? Could anyone else have brought more than three quarters of the might of Orlais into our land and known that they would go home to their families afterwards without making war upon us?

"Among all of you, which of you would not have to leave your Bann or your Arling unattended if you should become Regent? But Alistair, and Alistair alone, has no such responsibilities.

"No. There can be no better choice than Alistair. Not only because of these simple, practical considerations, but also because Alistair is well-loved. There are those among even this crowd who would lay down their lives for him in a moment.

"But Alistair also knows the Templars and their workings. He knows the politics of the Circle of Magi, and he has allies in both parties.

"Who among you can say the same? Which of you can speak with certainty of your knowledge of all of these groups?

"None? Well, whom can add to this, the admiration and respect of Orzammar?

"I challenge you. I challenge anyone here to find someone more qualified on any level, than Alistair is." At this statement, her voice had taken on a ringing quality, loud and strident and daring.

She turned to Arl Eamon then. "I dare, Ser, because this Landsmeet deserves to know the truth, and deserves to make a decision based upon all the knowledge that applies. Can you disprove the claim of Carson Theirin to the throne?"

Arl Eamon shook his head. "I cannot. The seal is legitimate."

"Can you name a candidate for Regent that is more qualified than Alistair Theirin?"

His face red, Arl Eamon shook his head again, "I cannot."

She turned and looked at the crowd. "Then I leave you to make your decision. I have taken enough of your time."

She walked out, but turned back and said, "But if any should attempt to separate this woman from this child, I swear to you that I will kill you. And if you manage to kill me first, I will come back from the Fade and have my revenge upon you for all the days of your life. There has been enough loss."

The doors closed behind the trio.


	102. Part 100

**Part 100:**

Alistair stared after the departing Mira. What had just happened? He was boggled by the whole thing. He had thought she was betraying him. Hate and rage had burned in his heart. And now, just as quickly, he was burning with shame and intense love.

How could he have doubted her? How could he have ever thought anything but the best of her? When had she ever been anything but unflinchingly loyal?

Sound swirled around him, but all he could think of was getting to her.

"Well?" Arl Eamon asked him.

"What?" Alistair asked, blinking stupidly.

"Do you accept the position of Regent that the Landsmeet wishes to confer upon you?"

"I…well. It's…" he ran a hand through his hair. "Yes. I suppose I have to, don't I?"

"After a speech like that, I think we'd all lynch you if you didn't," Bann Teagan said. There were scattered chuckles.

"Yes, I suppose," Alistair said. "Who would have thought it?"

"Not me," Anora said under her breath.

Alistair glared at her, and she shrugged and walked away.

"So it's decided?" Arl Eamon asked.

The Landsmeet roared with approval. Arl Eamon gestured, and Alistair talked to them briefly. He tried to think of everything—rebuild the land; rebuild the Wardens; repeal the unlawful mandates; work together.

Then, he stepped down to leave, but turned around and said, "The woman who just told you I should be Regent? Well, I'm going to marry her."

He let the doors fall shut behind him, ignoring the "but, she's a MAGE!" furor that erupted behind him.

"Shouldn't you ask the lady in question before you tell everyone?" Zevran asked him, falling in beside him.

"No way. If I asked her first, without being able to tell her that everybody already knows, she'd find some way to say 'no'," he answered. "But since I'm just a Regent, they can't stop me from marrying a mage."

"Ferelden is a strange, strange place," Zevran said. "I wish you luck. I think you're going to need it. If you need any tips—"

"Don't even think about it," Alistair growled at him.

"As you wish, as you wish," Zevran said. "But you know where to find me." He veered off down another hallway, whistling and pinching at a passing elven servant who slapped him and walked away.

He turned and looked at Alistair, holding his hands out innocently. "First time, ever!" he said.

Alistair chuckled and moved on, shaking his head.

His step was lighter and his mood buoyant as he rushed for Mira's room.

He knocked on the door and stepped inside, only to find her sitting on the edge of the bed, weeping again. This time, he decided, he wouldn't hold her with plate armor in the way—not even clean plate armor. He dropped it piece by piece into a chair and then went and gathered her into his arms.

She felt so soft and frail as her body was wracked by sobs that his heart stuck in his throat again. She had lost too much, paid too high a price. Ferelden owed her happiness and peace.

He owed her everything.


	103. Part 101

**Part 101:**

Mira wept for all that she had lost. Wynne. Her family. The chance at a normal life.

And now Alistair.

Because she was a mage, and he was to rule Ferelden. He couldn't be with her, and she knew that he would have to marry and try to produce an alternative heir. If Carson died before adulthood… there would be only Alistair.

He held her, and she was both grateful, and angry. She wanted to flee, to not face her loss.

"Look at this," Alistair said suddenly. "Do you know what this is?"

She looked at the rose in her hand. "Don't tell me, it's your new weapon of choice?"

"That's right! Watch me as I thrash our enemies with the mighty power of floral arrangements!" he said.

She couldn't help herself, she giggled.

"Feel my thorns, Darkspawn. I will overpower you with my rosy scent," he continued.

"Or, you know, it could just be a rose. I know that's pretty dull in comparison," he told her.

She sniffed and squeezed his hand, sighing.

"Sentiment can be a potent weapon," she answered, another tear creeping down her cheek.

"Is it that easy to see right through me? Heh. I guess I shouldn't be surprised." He wiped the tear away. "I picked it in Lothering back when this whole thing started, when I met Royce."

He looked away from her at the floor. "I remember thinking, 'How could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?' I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn't. The Darkspawn would come, and their taint would just destroy it. So I've had it ever since."

"That's a beautiful sentiment, Alistair," Mira told him. She thought it was so perfect. It was Alistair in flower form…

"I thought I might give it to you, actually." he told her, unaware of her thoughts. "In a lot of ways, I think the same thing, when I look at you."

Her head snapped up, and she stared at him, almost thinking he had read her mind.

He handed it to her, and she took it in her hands. It was incredible, still perfectly preserved. Its gentle fragrance still wafted up to whisper to her nose of love, of possibilities, of hope.

He knelt down in front of her, taking her hands in his. A thorn nipped her finger, but she ignored it.

"Alistair," she said. "I think I'm going to cry again."

He chuckled, "I hope that's a good thing this time, at least."

She nodded silently, the tears starting again. She couldn't help herself. She loved him so much that she ached all over with it.

"Marry me, Mira," he told her, his voice husky and hoarse.

She started to shake her head. He touched a finger to her lips.

"I won't do it without you. I'll walk away and let someone else do it. I swear it to you right here and now. I won't do it without you, Mira. Nothing and no one will move me to do it unless you're by my side. I'm not King, they can't tell me who to marry."

He actually looked… stubborn. And a bit threatening, as if he would jump on her and carry her away. She blinked at him stupidly for a moment.

She started to argue, and he touched her lips again. "Don't say anything if it's not 'yes'," he said. "I mean what I say. There's no argument you can make now. No logic, no reason, no justification. It's us, or neither of us. So what say you? Will you marry me?"

He ducked his head and peered up at her. "Do it for Ferelden! They need me, and they can't have me without you!"

He grinned his boyish grin, and she was lost.

She cried again as she said "yes." She said it, and said it, and said it. She was still saying it as he picked her up and dropped her on the bed, climbing in with her.


	104. Epilogue

**Epilogue:**

The handsome couple arrived in Orzammar hand in hand. All of the dwarves knew who they were. King Carson had been crowned some ten years before, and the Regent had stayed on to finish his teaching.

But it was time.

He and his wife, a quiet shadow always at his side, walked through Orzammar to the greetings and even the reverence of the dwarves.

The time that they had ruled would forever be remembered as a golden time for Ferelden and her neighbors. They had brought peace to the surrounding lands. Ferelden was a thriving land now, the ravages of the Blight a memory told around campfires and in the darkness.

But everyone knew that their time would come, and at last it had. The final walk into the depths of Orzammar. The last great battle.

One by one, the dwarves came to walk with them. The ranks of these silent attendants grew, the stalwart company joining them in this, their last great act for Ferelden and the world.

Hand in hand, the pair made their way through the dark tunnels. They spoke little, and the dwarves spoke less. They came to escort them. To honor them. To say good-bye to the pair who had once saved them, and then given them peace and hope again.

It was time. They reached the darkest, deepest recesses of the underground. The Darkspawn awaited.

The man in his bright, shining armor led the charge across the bridge. Beside him, his beautiful wife became a mighty bear, roaring and charging into the oncoming mass of bodies.

The fight was nothing short of epic. Hours passed and still they came, pouring across the bridge.

In the midst of the great battle, the dwarves swore later that they saw the shade of a Healer, standing beside the pair who had far outdistanced their dwarven escort. The couple seemed invincible, cutting down Darkspawn like sheaves of wheat.

At last, the dwarves were driven back, and the gleaming armor, the white shade, and the bear were engulfed in the press of bodies.

The fighting, the dwarves claim, went on into the darkness of the night. They say that, the next day, when they awoke to fight again, they found that the entire bridge had been cleared.

They found Alistair and Mira, lying amidst the greatest carnage in the history of Orzammar. Their hands were entwined around a single, perfect rose.

When the dwarves took the pair in state and lit their pyre, or so the story goes, they saw the pair within the flames, laughing and running through a field of flowers. The woman, they claimed, had hair the color of sunshine.

And, they swore as well, they heard the laughter of children and the sounds of song echoing in the flames.

The truth of their claims, we may never know.

But of one thing we can be certain.

The rose they claim they found with the couple remains still in the Shaperite, and is still pure and perfect to this day. And if you stand close to it, you can smell its scent. It smells of love, of possibilities, and of hope.


End file.
